


Beyond Broken

by Tsuki



Series: Darkness Cannot Drive [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman Beyond, Batman Beyond 2.0 (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon-Typical Violence, Comic Book Violence, Continuity What Continuity, Identity Issues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 15:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4612368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsuki/pseuds/Tsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Terry goes missing, Jason searches the DC future universe to find him... before it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Missing

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final multi-chapter piece of the 'Darkness Cannot Drive' series. If the first arc was about Jason's return, meeting Terry, and the introduction of their emotional demons, this arc is about a possibility of redemption... maybe. I really don't think I have it in me for another multi-chapter, but I may post drabbles from time to time in this universe. Hope you enjoy the end of the craziness! ~ Tsuki

**I don't own any characters mentioned in this story. The rights belong to DC comics, Bob Kane, etc.**

…  


The first call is made near midnight, Gotham City time. Max has just stepped out of the shower and considers not answering the blaring ringing of her computer phone. But then she notices the number.

“Hello?” she asks, keeping the screen off as she wraps her towel around herself tightly.

“Maxine,” Bruce Wayne's voice is serious and slightly scratchy sounding. “Is Terry with you?”

Max sighs and shakes the wetness out of her short hair. She hates it when Wayne calls her Maxine—she hasn't been called Maxine by anyone other than her mother since she was a kid. “Uh, no. Haven't seen him today—he had class this afternoon. He's not with you?”

The silence telegraphs a clear: _I wouldn't be calling if he was_. Max half-blushes in frustration. She also hates that Wayne manages to make her feel stupid—her, the girl who hacked her way into the Pentagon last week! She sighs, focusing back on the matter at hand.

“Did you try calling his cell?”

“Yes, there's no answer. The suit is traceable, though. It's sending out a signal from near 5th Street and Ivory. Meet me there.”

“What?! Mr. Wayne, I've got...” Before Max can finish her protests, Wayne hangs up with a loud 'CLICK.' Cursing under her breath, Max pulls clothes haphazardly from her closet. It takes another moment for her to feel the panic spreading outward from her breastbone into her arms, the fear radiating from the tips of her fingers as she zips up her Gotham U hoodie. What if... what if something really happened to Terry?

.

.

Bruce stands in the shadows, his jaw clenched tight as he waits for Terry's friend to arrive. He can see the shadow of Terry's bag in the back of the alleyway and he wants to rush forward, to grab it and scramble madly for any kind of clue. But his hearing isn't what it used to be—he has been running diagnostic tests on himself ever since he passed fifty and he has documented steady sensorineural hearing loss—and, while this area isn't known for heavy crime, entering a dark alleyway to search for clues, without backup, would hardly be wise.

A buzz of a motorbike engine whirrs closer and Bruce turns just in time to see Maxine pull up on a garish yellow motorpod. She rips her helmet off of and the first thing Bruce notices is that she has changed her hair dye color to a turquoise blue since he last saw her. The second thing he notices is that she is panicked. "Any sign of Terry?" she asks. She is near out of breath, eyes wide.

Bruce turns back toward the alley. "Wait here and watch for trouble," he states flatly. Not waiting for a response, he shuffles further into the dark, his eyes drinking in every detail, analyzing, searching.

The first clue: there—right there on the wall—a scrape. It looks like a knife or a sword mark—something sharp, now dulled by missing the intended target and scratching down old brick. Bruce notes the angle, reconstructs different possible stances in his head. Yes, an attacker would have to be standing at a slight angle, weight on the back foot. Arm length shows that the figure was likely about 5' 9" and therefore his leg would have fallen about—yes, right there. At the point where the pavement hits unevenly, Bruce sees a smudge of mud. It could have been from anyone at any time, but there is little in this alley and the angle matches up perfectly. Perhaps it is a clue to Terry's whereabouts. A long shot, but it's something; Bruce scrapes the sample into a small evidence bag before continuing on.

Now he sees a dented trashcan, and then another over on its side. The dent is deep, one of impact. Too narrow for a vehicle—definitely caused by a body, one thrown at a notable velocity. There was definitely a struggle here—a fight. Bruce's eyes trace the ground. There—he can see blood drops, even in the darkness. It's not much—light splatter. Like the kind created when a fist hits a split lip. Still, someone bled here tonight. Bruce collects a sample.

He's next to Terry's bag now and Bruce's breath catches in his throat as he notes another sign of blood. Wider this time, heavier. A head-wound, most likely. Not large enough to be life-threatening, but the pooling pattern suggests that a body had fallen here, face to the side, bleeding onto the pavement. Bruce can't help but notice the proximity of the bag, see the image in his mind of Terry lying there. Unconscious. Bleeding.

' _Pull it together, Batman,'_  he growls to himself.  _'You're not doing anyone any good getting emotional. Calm down. Focus.'_

The bag is still closed. The Batsuit is inside, seemingly untouched. Bruce scans the alleyway for a few more minutes before shuffling back to where Maxine is nervously standing.

"Well?! Did you find anything?" Bruce silently holds up the suit in response. Her eyes widen slightly, hand hovering in front of her mouth. "What do you think…?"

"There was some sort of struggle. Other than that, I'm not sure. All we know for sure is that Terry is missing… and the only way to easily locate him was left behind."

"So… what do we do now?" Bruce can tell that Maxine is trying to be brave, but the concern for Terry causes her voice to break ever so slightly.

"You go home," Bruce states flatly.

"But…!"

"There's nothing you can do. Keep your phone on and I'll let you know if I come up with anything solid. Until then…" Bruce frowns, his grip tightening on his cane. "…I need to make a few calls."

.

.

Everything is fuzzy, distant and unclear. He tries to turn his head, but can't. His body feels heavy and inhibited, like he's encased in thick peanut-butter. There are voices, but the sounds are jumbled, unrecognizable. He wants to make a sound, to call out, ask where he is, but his tongue is unfamiliar in his mouth and his throat muscles are more of a faraway idea than a reality. He tries once, twice, three times to speak. On the final attempt, he succeeds in making a small gurgling sound. The distant murmur of voices halts suddenly. He thinks he hears something which resembles,  _"He's waking up. Give him…"_ something unclear  _"…sleep."_

Then the certainty of a needle against skin and something fluid-like pushed uncomfortably into his neck. As Terry fades into blackness again, his brain gains enough clarity for a singularly bitter thought:  _"Some Batman you turned out to be…"_ Like many of Terry's more sarcastic and harsher thoughts, the tone feels distinctly like it is said by Jason. Terry doesn't know if he should feel depressed or comforted by that as he slips back into depth of unconsciousness.

.

.

Jason groans as he peels his hand away from the side of his Kevlar covered torso, hot blood coating his hand. Fucking Brazil—one of the few places on earth where criminals still easily find solid bullets. They've been more expensive than chargers in the past decade or more, but their deadliness has made the price worth it for many in the region.

Jason knows that he should have remembered to use thicker plating, but he has become used to the ease of movement that lighter body armor allows.  _'Sloppy, Todd,'_  he thinks to himself. He winces as he peels the chest plates away from his skin. It will probably take the main side-wound a few days to heal, though another minor graze across his right arm will likely heal by tomorrow afternoon. Either way, beer is in order. Lots of beer. Enough to pass out and sleep some of the pain off.

Thankfully, the jerkoffs who shot him aren't going to be bothering him again. Well, not unless some of them have a FastTrack pass back from the afterlife. Which hasn't been unheard of, of course, but Jason doubts the whatever-the-hell-powers-that-be had a lot of investment in a handful of Brazilian gang members and gun runners.

He catches a glance of himself in the mirror and half-winces, half-chuckles. He looks a fright. Blood splatter across his face, blood streaked across his chest. It looks kind of morbidly awesome, he thinks to himself. He cracks open a can of beer and toasts to himself in the hotel mirror.

It's then that his computer alarm sounds, the emergency line lighting up with a glaring, flashing message: 'E401'

"Pity be to the man who falls and has no one to help him up," Jason sighs to himself. Fucking Tim. He glances back at himself in the mirror. Whatever—Tim knew who he was calling. If he needed another favor, let him get an eyeful. Jason takes another sip of beer as he hits the 'answer' button. "You know, the whole 'you owe me' thing means that I should be asking you for a favor, not the other way around. I'm not sure what you're deal is, Tim, but…"

"Jason."  _Oh shit_. The voice on the call is not Tim Drake. The beer gulp sticks in Jason's throat and a chill runs down his spine. Bruce.

Jason looks over at the monitor and into cold blue eyes. He suddenly feels naked, exposed. He sees Bruce's eyes flicker briefly over the streaks of blood on his chest and Jason can't help but remember what it was like to be caught trying to grab another bowl of ice cream from Alfred's kitchen stash or sneaking out after curfew. Guilt. Embarrassment. Jason wishes he'd taken a shower or at least kept the monitor off—yes, even after all of these years, Bruce's gaze could still give him a head-case.

"Er…" Jason half-coughs, gesturing to the blood smears. "If it makes you feel any better, most of this is mine." A flash of something flickers across Bruce's eyes, but the emotion is indistinct and disappears as quickly as it had formed. Another moment of silence passes as Jason tensely sips at his beer again. "So, I'm assuming this isn't a social call. What's the deal? Come across a 90's punk rock question in Trivial Pursuit? Need someone to dog sit while you attend some sort of billionaire's convention? I don't know what you…"

"Terry is missing, Jason."

The silence now is almost tangible, thick and dark. Jason feels the beer can dent under his grip. "Define missing."

"It seems someone has abducted him. There are signs of a struggle at his last known location. It's been about 26 hours now since anyone has seen or communicated with him."

"I see." His throat is so tight now that it is painful. "Don't tell me that you called  _me_  first."

"No," Bruce admits. "I called Barbara. Then Clark. He and the Flash are going to do some rounds across Gotham and nearby cities to look for more signs. But…" the hesitation in Bruce's voice is clear and Jason finds it troubling.

"What? Spit it out, Bruce."

The man once known as Batman gives the briefest of glares before saying, "If Terry was abducted, it was  _as_  Terry. The suit was still in his bag."

"What? You're sure? But... who would want to kidnap the kid?"

"That's a question I was hoping you could help me discover," the old man states. His voice is cold and emotionless, but the tenseness hints at his own kind of fear. "Most of the Justice League knows who Terry is because they also know who I am. But not all of them. That was a decision based on security—and so this isn't a charge I can give them. Barbara can use police procedure to help me dig up information and clues, but she has a force to run and can't jeopardize that. And Dick and Tim aren't in this battle anymore. So… it's you. I need your help, Jason."

If it was  _anything_  else, Jason knows he would currently be telling Bruce to fuck off, that Bat problems aren’t his deal anymore, that he doesn’t owe the old man anything and so to not expect any favors. But all Jason can see behind his eyelids is the look on Terry's face as he sleeps, hair askew and drool leaking from his mouth. He hears the sound of his laughter, feels the firmness of Terry's lips pressed to his.

"I have one idea," Jason finally spits through gritted teeth. "Get me a ticket to Shanghai, first flight out. I just need to get cleaned up."

Bruce nods. "I'll send you the information."

Jason lets out a shaky breath as the call ends and the screen goes dark. He then turns to go wash the blood off in a quick shower. He groans when the soap hits his gashed side.  _So much for letting that heal_ , he curses to himself. He just has to hope that he's in good enough condition to hold his own in a fight, and a tough one at that.

Just a half-hour later, Jason steps out of a cab at the Brasília International Airport. He is focused. He has to be, after all. The only person whom Jason can think of who might have answers is a certain meta enforcer who works for the Chinese mob.

Yes, Jason thinks determinedly. He has to go see Big Time.


	2. Confrontation

Charlie “Big Time” Bigelow closes his eyes and breathes out a lung-full of warm smoke. This gig isn't so bad, he thinks. Sure, the Chinese language grates on his nerves and the jerk the Order assigned as his translator seems like he might be fucking with him occasionally, but a few pointed threats make sure that any jokes at Big Time's expense are made cautiously. And, hell, he has unlimited access to Korean trip-hop albums and, even more enjoyably, packs upon packs of Blues.

Blues saturated the Asian drug market last year—a mild opiate in cigarette form, it gives a pleasant and floating buzz to the user. Whenever the Order doesn't need Charlie around to pound in a few skulls, he can often be found lounging in his room, puffing on Blues and listening to some pretty tranq music. As he shifts his massive arms, Big Time thinks to himself about how different this feeling is from his downtime back as a “kid” back home. His time in Gotham was all about moving faster—boosting the fastest cars possible, taking stimulants to stay up late dancing, listening to music which pulsed and throbbed at a break-neck speed. It was all about risk and adrenaline and rushing toward something, as if there was a real possibility that if he and his friends ran fast enough then their dreams would be just around the corner.

But Charlie is Big Time now—he's already met up with his dreams, grabbed them by the throat and made them his through sheer force. He is one of the most feared men in China now (heck, maybe even all of Asia...) and the main enforcer for The Tri-Order, the Chinese mob made up of a Chinese yakuza branch mixed with lingering members of what was once the Triad.  No small potatoes in this bunch, and Big Time knows he is one of the most powerful and feared members.

Not bad at all, he thinks as he takes another deep breath of smoke, feeling his limbs tingle and feel lighter, more distant. He closes his eyes and listens to the whirring, rhythmic beat of the music. After a moment, he frowns, cracking open one eye in confusion. There is a high pitch sound that doesn't fit with the song—like distant yelling and thumping. He waits for the song to make sense again, to right itself and return to mellow beats and layers. But instead the thumps are getting louder and Big Time realizes that they're not coming from the music player at all. Cursing to himself, he switches off the stereo.

There, he hears it now. Chaos—some sort of fight. A big one from the sounds of it. There's a scream which morphs into a strangles gurgling sound, someone choking on their own blood.

Big Time snuffs out his Blue, and waits. He's not going to rush out there—he has no loyalty to the Tri-Order for anything but what he is paid for. Better to wait until the situation benefits him in some way or until he absolutely can't avoid addressing the situation any longer.

There's the muffled sound of an explosion. More yelling now. Another scream and gurgle. Charlie can't help but smirk as he listens—the chaos sounds like a lot of fun. He cracks his neck and his knuckles, waiting.

A few minutes later, the locked door to his room blasts open, blown off of its hinges by a series of small explosive chargers. Big Time is on his feet, watching the smoke intently as he waits to see who would seriously be stupid enough to try and take him on.

The attack comes before the haziness clears and Charlie curses quietly as he blocks a kick moving sharply toward his side, the Blue causing his reaction time to be just a fraction of a second slower than usual. The Blue must also affect his recognition, Big Time realizes, because it takes him a moment to process who it is attacking him. When he does realize it, he can't help but laugh, the sound of his deep chuckle filling the small room.

“Really, Red Hood? You didn't think your last ass kicking was enough, you had to come back to me for more?”

Big Time remembers his last battle with Red Hood—the helmeted man had been yapping up a storm, always quick with a comeback or a cruel joke. This time, though, the masked man is silent. He charges forward, steel toed boots trying to connect with Big Time's rock-hard flesh. Charlie chuckles and barely bothers blocking.

“Hey, that tickles. Is that all you came to do, Red? Give me a little massage?”

The man known as Red Hood stays eerily silent as he drops into a crouch and pulls a long, sharp samurai sword from a sheath on his back. Big Time raises an eyebrow; huh, no one had ever attacked him with a sword before. This should be interesting...

The Hood swipes and slashes quickly, almost faster than Big Time is able to process. He manages to block most of the blows with his massive arms, a sharp clanking sound ringing out, rock-like arms against metal. The sword stings a bit, but Charlie chuckles when he realizes that even the sword can't cut his hard, mutated flesh.

“Oh god _damn_ it,” the Hood hisses finally. He grabs a long, twisted knife from his belt and looks like he's going to try and attack with that next, but the sword stings are irritating, cutting through Big Time's happy haze, so the behemoth just growls and grabs the vigilante by the helmet. Before the Red Hood has time to act, Big Time has smashed him against the ground, head-first.

The sound of shattering acrylic and snapping wires is almost deafening, as is the pained groan of the Hood as tries to sit up and brush away the sharp shards of his helmet.

Huh. Interesting. Charlie has never really wondered or cared before what the Red Hood looks like under his helmet. He has always just been one of many thugs, players, mercenaries, and vigilantes he’s had to tangle with in his work with various mobs and the Tri-Order. Some passing information about how long Red Hood had been around led Big Time to think that maybe he was middle aged. Or that maybe he wore the helmet because he was horribly deformed or disfigured.

But no—from the look of it, even with a deep and bleeding laceration on his face now from the shattered helmet, the man under the Red Hood is actually pretty attractive. Right in the wheel-house of Charlie's type, actually. Thin face, bright eyes, dark hair. Not bad at all. Well, Charlie decides, that just makes this fight a little more fun...

Big Time drives in for a punch, something to really knock the wind out of the Hood and maybe break a rib or two, but the Hood quickly rolls out of the way and vaults up onto Big Time's arm. He's suddenly gripped hard on his back now, one hand looped around Charlie's neck, the other holding the twisted knife right up against Charlie's eye.

Oh. Huh. Yeah, he's pretty sure his eyes aren't invulnerable like his skin. Charlie would almost applaud the Red Hood for his quick thinking if he wasn't mildly worried about losing his eyesight to that sharp, gnarled knife.

“Now...” unmuffled by his helmet, the Red Hood's voice is as dark and sharp as his weapon “...I need some information.”

Charlie snorts, projecting a bravado he doesn't fully feel at this moment. “Oh yeah? You think that little knife can do any damage to me, Hood?”

“I think I'm about to find out.” The man starts to jab the knife forward, giving Big Time the perfect opportunity to block with one hand as he grabs the Hood by his hair. Yeah—the hooded man is clearly not used to his hair being grabbable, Charlie chuckles to himself, listening to the Red Hood's gasp as Charlie pulls, throwing the man to the ground by a fist-full of dark hair. Some of it comes off in Big Time's hand, blood at the roots. Before the Hood has time to finish groaning at the pain, Charlie has his hand around his throat... and he presses down.

In his new form, Charlie has found that it doesn't take much effort at all to strangle someone to death. It's actually one of his favorite ways to kill someone and he knows the steps by heart. First they claw at his impenetrable hand, then their eyes widen and go bloodshot, their mouths gaping like fish as they try to draw in any small hint of air. Then they look at Big Time pleadingly, silently asking for mercy as their mouths go wider, their whole body stiffening and flailing. That pleading look is always the real thrill. Charlie can't get enough of it, the power he feels when someone acknowledges that he literally holds their life in his hand.

He wants to see that look on the Hood's face. The sarcastic killer who was such an annoyance in Hong Kong last year—he wants to see him silently beg, to surrender that power to Charlie's control. So he presses down harder on the Hood's throat.

But he doesn't see it. Not a bit. Instead, the man known as the Red Hood is staring at him defiantly, teeth gritted in pain. He doesn't even try to struggle for breath, as if even that would be a surrender to Big Time. He pounds and pries at the hands around his throat, but the struggle is targeted and practical rather than desperate. Every angry glare in the man's look screams, _“Fuck you—you can take my life but I'm not_ giving _it to you.”_

Big Time finds himself mildly disappointed. Then there's that subtle itch, that curiosity.

 _Information_ , Red Hood had said. It was pretty clear that the Hood hadn't come here to attack the Tri-Order—he had come here specifically to see Big Time. What information could Charlie possibly know that the other Tri-Order member's didn't?

Charlie loosens his grip and the pressure on the Hood's throat. The man gulps up a giant, half-coughing gasp of air, the defiance in eyes still not wavering.

“What information?” Big Time asks. For a moment, the Hood just looks at him with questioning eyes, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Color me curious,” Charlie chuckles in response.

The Hood coughs one more time. “There's a kid in Gotham. He's gone missing. Kidnapped. Think you know him. Name's Terry McGinnis.”

The rage that flows through Big Time is quick and ferocious. He wants to grab the Hood by the hair again and smash his head in. How _dare_ him! No one knows who he really is. _No one!_ Big Time, as far as the Tri-Order and everyone else knows, has always been Big Time. He was never some half-skinny punk named Charlie Bigelow. Charlie has made sure of that. All the players in Gotham who knew anything at all about him are dead. Well, everyone except Terry...

Big Time lets out a ferocious growl. “What. Do. You. Know?”

The Hood allows himself a small smirk. “I know your name is Charles Bigelow. That you grew up in the reconstructs of Gotham. I did some digging and I know you and Terry were arrested on the same day. That you were nothing but a punk eighteen year old kid. And I know when you got out of prison, you wanted to make it big. But you botched that job at Wayne Chemical and—”

The Hood doesn't get any further because Charlie has slammed his hand back into the Red Hood's windpipe, determined in his rage to finish him off. But there's a soft whistling sound, followed by a sharp pain in the back of Big Time's leg. Cursing, he turns to look and sees a hidden knife sticking out of the Hood's boots, half-stabbed into Charlie's calf.

The distraction is all the time Red Hood needs. He pushes Big Time back and flips sideways, putting some distance between himself and the hulking giant of an enforcer. He drops into a defensive fighting stance, green-blue eyes on guard, watching Big Time.

“I know you... you went after Terry before,” Red Hood gasps, his voice strained from his bruised throat. “Did you try again, Charlie? Were you trying to tie up loose ends?”

“ _Terry_ , huh...” Big Time scratches his chin thoughtfully. “On a first name basis, Hood? What's your stake in this? Can't imagine a small time punk like McGinnis would be on your international radar. What gives?”

The Hood clearly hesitates, his shoulders tensing. “...I was once a small time punk from Gotham too, Big Time. Let's just say this is personal.”

“Oh? And what about all those other small time Gotham punks who are shot down in gang fights or end up in prison? You cry them a river too, Hood? What's so special about little Terry?” Charlie watches carefully as the Hood tenses, half-hesitates. “Just _how_ personal is it, hmm Hood?” Charlie finds himself grinning, practically seeing the buttons to push lighting up on the vigilante's strained face. “I mean, Terry was a fine piece of ass. I'm not sure worth going half-way around the world for, but definitely sweet. Good mouth too. You taste any of that, Hood? That what this is ab...?”

The Hood charges forward, eyes flashing in anger. Before Big Time has a chance to pivot, the Hood has rolled to the ground and grabbed the discarded samurai sword from the floor. He gets one stinging slash in before Charlie angrily grabs the blade in mid-swing. He presses, crushes, ignoring the pain in his hand as he hears the sword crack and shatter.

The Red Hood glances down, a flash of dismay on his face as he takes in the ruin of the broken sword. Then he steels his face and just glares at Big Time determinedly. “So, do you know where Terry is or don't you, you son of a bitch?”

Big Time is shocked into silence for a moment. Then he can't help but laugh. Fully and loudly. “You've got guts, Hood.” He shakes his head as he throws the shattered remains of the sword aside. “No, I didn't take Terry. I've got bigger things to worry about. Don't know who did and don't care.”

Some brief emotion rushes across Red Hood's face, eyes half-wincing closed like he had been slapped. Charlie sighs, feeling strangely... sympathetic for a moment.

“Look,” he grumbles. The Red Hood looks up, questioningly. “Looking for people who have something against Tiny Terry? I'd go for me too. But I don't got him, so I’m pretty sure that list is just about exhausted. Now what do you do? Well, you don't look for who'd have something against the kid—you look for who'd have something against his boss. Bruce Wayne's got an enemy list a lot longer than Ter's. I'd look there, if I was you.”

The Red Hood frowns. “Uh... yeah. That was... that was next on the list.” Charlie nods, waving his hand dismissively as he starts to turn away. “Wait,” the Hood calls back, “are you _seriously_ just letting me go right now? No more fighting? After I killed, well, uh, let's just say 'a bunch' of your guys?”

Big Time shrugs and collapses back into his favorite chair. “Not my guys. I just work for 'em. But yeah—seems like you've got things to do, don't you? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Hood. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

The Hood hesitates just a moment, then picks up his twisted knife and turns away, stepping over the shatters of steel from the sword and the smokey remains of Big Time's door.

Charlie sighs and leans back in his chair. How strange the world was, how weirdly interconnected. He finds himself thinking, for just a moment, about the last time he saw “Tiny” Terry. There had been a moment when Charlie had actually thought maybe Terry would join him on this adventure, be the one person he could trust, be his right hand man. Terry had always been fiercely loyal, almost to a fault.

But the rage that Charlie had felt when Terry turned him down—that was something else. Pain worse than the Cerestone mutation. He had wanted to kill him—hell, had tried to. But that anger wasn't there anymore. He hadn't, in fact, thought about Terry for a while.

He wonders briefly if his needling at Red Hood had been correct, if somehow the vigilante had hooked up with Terry, if the relationship between them was more than vague acquaintances. Well, it'd have to be, he supposed, for the Hood to travel all the way to China to ask about him.

Charlie grumbles to himself and sinks deeper into his chair. Jealousy, that's what he's feeling, mixed with just a hair of resentment. Sure, he has everything here—plenty of money, power, music, and drugs. But he now he can't help but remember the sweet smile Terry used to wear when they were punk kids, or the way he'd blush furiously when Charlie said something raunchy to him in public. He doesn't even quite remember the lewd stuff they used to do in Terry's bedroom or the sweeping thrill of breaking into houses—instead it's the small things that he mostly remembers, the quiet moments when he felt... human.

Big Time shakes his head as if to clear it. He should probably tell the higher ups in the Tri-Order that there are some bodies to clear up. Well, he'd do that eventually... for now, Charlie “Big Time” Bigelow just leans back and lites up another Blue.

.

.  


Jason sits on a rooftop about a mile away from the Tri-Order's compound and winces. Okay, besides the side-wound and the gash on his arm that has yet to heal, he now has a grand tally of a bruised throat, bleeding scalp, a fairly deep cut on his brow, and what could be a mild concussion. Fan. Freaking. Tastic.

He grits his teeth and forces himself to stand up. _No time for a pity party, Todd. There's work to do_.

Jason makes his way carefully to a small, hidden safe-house that he had set up last time he was in the area. It isn't as expansive as some of his others, but it has a back-up gun and charger, one spare set of armor and helmet (yeah, he's definitely going to need that one), and a disposable international cell-phone.

Bruce picks up on the first ring. _[[Any luck?]]_

“No,” Jason admits, his voice still strained from Big Time's attempted strangling. “Dead end. You?”

 _[[Actually, yes. I've analyzed the samples from the scene were the suit was left. The blood is all Terry's.]]_ Jason tries not to let panic well up in him at that detail. _[[But there was also a sample of soil left. A very particular compound of mineral and water crystallization. The most likely place a sample like this could have been picked up is in the Himalayas.]]_

Jason frowns. “Terry, Superman, and I were there not too long ago. Could it have been from Terry's shoe?”

_[[You tell me. Did Terry bring a change of shoes, as far as you remember?]]_

There's a harshness to Bruce's tone that Jason doesn't want to analyze right now. “Umm… no. He put clothes over the suit, but his suit’s boots were on the whole time. If he wasn't wearing that Bat-Suit when he got picked up, that soil shouldn't have been from him.”

_[[Okay. Then who else do we know who was in the Himalayas recently?]]_

Jason growls low in his throat, fists clenching. “Luthor. Where can I find her?”

_[[You're in luck. She's slated for a meeting at Lex Co. International tomorrow... in Tokyo.]]_

“Nice. Get me a ticket?”

 _[[Already started the process,]]_ Wayne replies. _[[But you'll have to be more... diplomatic, Jason. Reports are already starting to come in about an attack on the Tri-Order. A bit more than was necessary. Luthor is a powerful woman—the last thing we need to deal with is her full arsenal gunning for you while we're trying to locate Terry.]]_

 “Fine,” Jason bites out. “I'll keep the kid-gloves on. But just so you know, if I find out that something serious has happened to Terry, your rules are out the window. Got it?”

 Bruce doesn't respond. There is silence for a moment before he finally says, _[[Your flight is leaving in two hours. Good luck.]]_

 “Thanks,” Jason states flatly as he hangs up the phone. As his whole head and the side of his abdomen both throb sharply in pain, the man known as the Red Hood suddenly realizes that he could probably use all the luck he can get.


	3. In League with Luthor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the past year, one of my favorite Batman Beyond moments has been from Batman Beyond Unlimited comic where it is revealed that old Mr. Dick Grayson and the new/futuristic Catwoman have a casual/sexual relationship. After taking a moment to laugh and find that awesome (and far more interesting than repeating history/her flirting with Terry), I decided that I had to work it into this story. So I did... enjoy! ~ Tsuki

Dick Grayson stares out over the Neo-Gotham skyline, his dead eye aching in its socket. He has a headache and a hint of heartburn, and even the thought of those make him truly feel like an old man. A brief memory of his youth celebrates slightly as the sheets on his bed shift with the heavy breath of a coffee-skinned young woman, gorgeous and deadly. Sometimes he's shocked at how much of a Bat-cliche he's turned out to be. Sometimes he pretends that he doesn't care.

 “Are you going to stay up all night brooding?” she sighs from the bed. Grayson tries not to wince at the likely trueness of the statement.

 “No. Just thinking. You should go back to sleep.”

 A scornful snort follows and he hears the shifting of cloth and limbs as the woman (more like _girl,_ he reminds himself) known as Catwoman wraps thin yet strong arms around his waist. “Yeah, well, your thinking is loud. And annoying. Either go help him, or come to bed.”

 Dick tries to flash a glare her way, but he finds that the effect is negligible with only one eye. Besides, the sexy sarcasm machine and daughter of a nuclear-physicists-turned-thief-and-villain-for-hire has proven herself just about immune to Bat-glares.

 “I don't know what you're talking about,” Grayson lies. He feels childish the moment the words leave his mouth.

 “Yeah, sure, and I'm citizen of the year. Idiot.” Soft lips are pressed against his bare shoulder. He hates how comforting that small motion is. He really should stop this, he knows. The daughter of Danton Black had specifically asked him once—taunted him, really—“So, how exactly is hooking up with an homage to the Batman's most infamous cat-burglar helping you put your little ol’ Bat-identity behind you, old man?” He hadn't had an answer then and, truth be told, he doesn't have one now. He just stares out at the city's angular, cold horizon and stays silent.

 “The kid's nice,” she reminds him. “Why don't you help track him down, anyway?”

 “It's not my business,” Grayson reminds her, his voice harsh as if he's trying to convince himself as much as he is trying to convince her. “I'm sure it's under control.”

 “Uh, sure, whatever. But, I mean,” she pauses to nibble on his neck a moment, “aren't you part of that whole Bat _thing_? So, it _is_ your business, right?”

 He shakes his head. “No. Maybe for the others but... he's not my family. The old man is—he's like my father. Adopted, but still. But the kid? He's just someone the old timer took under his wing. It's not on me.”

 Black's lips pause against his skin. She is tense and silent, and Grayson can't help but feel a moment of deja vu. He's said something like this before to a near-naked woman in his bedroom. It was when he was talking to Kori about Jason. 'You should get to know him,' the Starfire princess had insisted after Dick had raged about his newly discovered replacement. 'He is your family now, is he not?' He had bristled at that comment, insisted that this street kid that Batman had taken in was not his family, not his responsibility to train or to care for. He had regretted that moment of dismissal and rage for years after Jason's death. Dick wonders if history repeats itself—if he will find himself mourning another 'not family' member who he maybe could have helped.

  “The kid's nice,” Black repeats.

 Grayson hesitates. “I know.”

 There is only another moment of silence before he turns toward the bathroom. “I'm going to take a shower. Then I'm going out—there's one lead I can look into. If you stay here, don't steal anything.”

 Catwoman chuckles and Dick can't help but think that the sound is almost like a purr. “Don't worry. I've been here enough times to know there's nothing of yours worth stealing.”

 Grayson doesn't know whether he should be insulted or comforted by that. A hand on his cheek silences the confusion for a moment, however, as Black whispers: “I hope you find him.”

 .

.

Lucinda Luthor breathes a heavy sigh as she steps out of the hotel's glass elevator. The Tokyo lights blink through the windows like dying stars, the orange glow of the Tokyo Tower illuminated in the famed horizon.  It's late and she has been in meetings all day, a fixed smile painfully burnt into her face as the men around her chattered to each other, _sometimes_ remembering to address her as the head of Lex Co. Japanese businessmen's attitudes toward women in the boardroom have, as far as Lucinda has researched, changed throughout the decades, but this week the managers at the Japanese branch have still made the mistake, time and time again, of talking to Luthor's male secretary rather than address her directly. She scowls and kicks off her spiked heels, walking the rest of the hotel hallway barefoot, and reminds herself of the bottle of 18-year aged Yamazaki whiskey that is waiting for her behind her hotel room door. At least that is a bright spot in her day...

 When she opens the door to her hotel suit, she freezes. There's a tension in the air which sends a chill up her neck. Lucinda thumbs the switch behind her ear, activating her eye-piece, the room now tinted green in her iris as she scans the room. It takes less just a few seconds for a heat-signature to flash in her vision. It's faint—someone is using insulated body-armor to mask their presence—but still notable. “I don't know who you are, but I'm not in the mood to play games. Come out.”

 “Well, that was fast,” a muffled voice chuckles. “But then, I shouldn't have expected less from a Luthor.” Out of the shadows steps a man clad in black body armor, crisscrossing straps holding an array of vicious-looking weapons, his head shielded in a red helmet.

 “Well, obviously you know who I am,” Lucinda snaps, “but I can't say the same. Have we met?”

 “Briefly seen each other, but the word 'met' would be a bit strong,” the muffled voice chuckles. “Last time we were near each other, you were a tad distracted by a floating Kryptonian.”

 There is a brief flash of familiarity through Lucinda's memory and she nods. “Ah, my last India trip. You're one of those costumed heroes then?”

 “More like ‘costumed figure with semi-questionable loyalty.’”

 “Well, I suppose that is more interesting than most. Now,” Luthor crosses her arms and sharpens her voice, “tell me why I shouldn't summon every one of my guards—robot and human alike—and have you strung up for breaking in to my room?”

  “Because I'm not here to hurt you,” the man in the helmet states flatly. “Well... most likely.”

 “Hmm, yes, that just fills me with loads of confidence. All right, so this little chat is over...” Lucinda moves her hand quickly to press the 'ALERT' button hidden beneath a bracelet on her left wrist.

 “The man known as Batman is missing—”  The man blurts out before she can press the alarm.

 Luthor raises an eyebrow. “I see. And what exactly does _that_ have to do with me?”

 “The Himalayas,” the intruder continues. “There's evidence that whoever took Batman was recently there. Like _you_ were, for example.”

 “Are you accusing me of something?” Luthor laughs. “I assure you, I didn't take the Batman. He is of no use to me whatsoever. There's certainly nothing profitable about kidnapping the only completely human, completely powerless member of the so-called Justice League. And besides, my father rather liked his predecessor.”

 Lucinda hears a disbelieving half-snort from the confines of the mask. “He did?”

 “Well,” she sighs in response, “perhaps 'like' is a bit hyperbolic. He admired him. Batman was proof of what my father had been saying all along—humans have great potential. It just takes brilliance and determination. Batman was a perfect example of how we could defend ourselves against aliens and mutations. Ultimately, however, the great tragedy of the Batman is that he was one of us, but chose to pretend to be one of _them_. He protected them, championed their causes. A bit disgusting, really.”

 “Yeah, well, I have no love lost for metas and, sure, fuck the Justice League. But someone who just _happened_ to be in the same area that you were recently just rolled into Gotham and kidnapped someone important. I'm just trying to figure out who I have to go after. I'm happy to believe it wasn't you, but bullshit if you don't have _any_ idea who it could be. My guess is that it had to do with why you were in the mountains to begin with. Who were you meeting with, Luthor?”

 “Again,” Lucinda sighs, “as I told Superman—and as I believe you overheard—I am not beholden to answer your questions. I am a private citizen and...”

 “Spare me,” the masked man snaps, a tight anger echoing in the helmet's metal casing. “This is important, not some chess game between you and super-alien. Now, I _will_ find out where he is, but if I have to waste my time and look somewhere else while you could have helped me save him, I swear to God I will make your life a living hell. If Batman is hurt, I will hunt you and I will ruin you. Is. That. Clear?” Lucinda is silent in response, her dark eyes sharp in anger. After a moment of silence, the masked man seems to falter, his voice slightly catching. “Look, I... I just need to find him. It's... it's important. _Please_.”

 There's an earnestness to his voice. Lucinda can't help but find that strange. After a moment, she finds herself sighing, her hand planted firmly on her hip. “I make it a policy to never negotiate with masked men. Take off the helmet, tell me your name, sit down with me and have a drink, and then I'll consider what information you deserve. There are untouched glasses in the bathroom—grab them for me, will you? And you're welcome to check and see that the whiskey on the desk is still sealed. This is no trap, I assure you.”

 Lucinda Luthor doesn't wait for a response as she turns and makes her way confidently down the hall and into the main area of the hotel suite. After a moment of waiting patiently, she hears shuffling feet behind her on the carpet and the soft clink of glasses. 

.

.

 He finds that his eyes are open more often than before, but he cannot make sense out of what he sees. There are lights, bright white, and a faint beeping. Brief catches of the sound of human voices, but they are distant and strange, like a frequency that does not fully come in. He cannot move his arms or turn his head. There is something in his throat; it feels hard and makes it difficult for him to swallow. He doesn't know much, but he knows that he is terrified.

.

.

 Jason takes another sip and feels the warmth of the whiskey spread through his throat. This is... strange. Of all the different possibilities he had considered for how his confrontation with Luthor would go, none of them contained him sitting completely helmet-less, drinking whiskey, and just _talking_. He wonders briefly if his head injury from his fight with Big Time is more severe than he thought and is causing hallucinations.

 Luthor is still scoffing about how annoyingly overpriced the shops in Ginza district of Tokyo are with new tech, but how her security forces are against her going to more cyber-price-friendly regions because of the rise in T-Gang international presence. Jason murmurs an agreement, though he admits to spending more time in Roppongi because of his Yakuza connections.

 The conversation is oddly civil, though Jason would be an idiot if he ever truly let his guard down around a Luthor. Still... Lucinda doesn't seem nearly as power-hungry as her biological father. She has strong feelings about security and anger and distrust of metas, but Jason agrees with many of her points. It was like he had once told Roy after their run-in with Superman: he didn't trust anyone or anything in the universe with that kind of power.

 Lucinda sighs, rolling the whiskey glass between her fingers. “All right. I like you. And you have me intrigued. So, we're going to play a little game.”

 Jason raises an eyebrow. “Well, that already sounds dangerous. What are the rules?”

 Luthor smirks, her dark eyes flashing as she takes a sip from her glass. “You want information from me. You have information that I would likely benefit from as well. So, we trade. We each get to ask one question for each one we answer. However, we both have information too valuable for petty games, so passing or not answering is acceptable.”

 Jason frowns. “So, what's the motivation to answer anything?”

 Luthor shrugs. “As Shakespeare wrote, nothing can come of nothing. An answer on your part is the only way you get to ask a question and get answers of your own. Quid pro quo. Does this sound fair?”

 Jason hesitates, his grip tightening on his glass. This is dangerous... yet very smart on Luthor's part. And he still has control over what information he gives up. “Fine. But I go first.”

 “Naturally—you're the one who wanted information so badly that you broke into my hotel room.” There is a hint of dry humor and dark bitterness in Luthor's voice. “Go ahead.”

 “Alright. Do you know where Batman is?”

 “No. My turn now.”

 “Hey! Wait—”

 Lucinda's silver-painted nails clink against her glass. “You asked a yes-or-no question and I answered. Any further details come from future turns and questions. Now... does Superman have a human-disguise or 'secret identity'?”

 Jason curses to himself. Yep, definitely a Luthor. “Yes. But don't bother asking further questions about that topic because I'll refuse to answer.”

 “I assumed as much. Just wanted verification,” Lucinda chirps. “Next?”

 Jason considers a moment. “Why were you in the Himalayas?”

 “To meet with a temporary yet profitable business associate. What is your connection to Batman?”

 Jason hesitates. “It's... complicated. I knew his predecessor.”

 Lucinda half-laughs in surprise. “When? Were you in diapers and a little onsie? Surely you can't be over thirty!”

 “You can ask that question next, Luthor, but it's my turn. Who was your profitable business associate?”

 “Pass. Ask something else.”

 Jason curses quietly and takes a warm sip of whiskey. He has a stupid desire to ask just how much she paid for the aged Yamazaki—he's fairly sure the bottle price was close to 200 credits—but he quickly shakes off the brief impulse and says: “Do you have any suspicion that your business associate might be the one behind Batman's disappearance?”

 A look of genuine surprise and... something darker runs across Luthor's face. She frowns. “I... I'm not sure.  I can't see why, but... my contact did seem quite interested in Gotham. However, I specifically kept my knowledge of my associate's goals and plans limited.” She takes a drink and then smirks. “Who do you think is the most dangerous member of the Justice League?”

 “Superman. No contest.”

 “Really? I've heard some argue Green Lantern.” Lucinda Luthor's eyes gleam with interest.

 “Hardly,” Jason scoffs. “The ring requires will and concentration, both which can be broken. If you needed to stop Green Lantern, you could. But Superman requires will to _not_ destroy literally everything around him at any second. Against him you're battling a god, not just some meta. Now... you hesitated when you considered if your business associate had taken the Batman. Why?”

 “He scares me. Slightly.” Luthor admits this with a tone which hints at bitter begrudging. “I got the sense he'd be capable of anything and he certainly seemed to be planning something... large. So, how old _are_ you, anyway?”

 Jason coughs. “Pass. Let's just say I tangoed with your dad once or twice.”

 “Really? Now I'm especially intrigued. Okay... what is a piece of information which I would find valuable for Lex Co.?”

 Jason nods. A smart and very open question—definitely a Luthor. “The T-Gang expansion is being stalled by the Tri-Order and the Yakuza. There's a definite tension, likely soon to be direct antagonism there. If you can make friends with Yakuza or Tri-Order contacts, you'll be more likely to have any tech you ship through China or Japan go untouched by T's.”

 “I suspected as much, but that is helpful to have your confirmation and perspective. Thank you.”

 Jason half-shrugs. “No problem. Where did you go specifically in the Himilayas? I didn't see a structure anywhere on the mountain you were walking down. If a person there could have Batman, I want coordinates.”

 Luthor is silent a moment as she takes another sip of whiskey. Jason's breath is tight in his throat. He expects Luthor to pass, but the question was one he needed to ask, just in case. But she stays silent for another moment and another sip of the Yamazaki.

 “I think we're done here,” Luthor sighs. “We've reached the end of this game round.”

 “What?” Jason's hands tighten on the hotel chair, his teeth grinding. “It's one thing to pass, but then I get another question. You can't just cancel the game!”

 “I'm not canceling,” Lucinda smirks. “I'm simply post-poning. This is like a seventh inning stretch, if you will.”

 “I don't understand what you mea—” Jason doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence when Lucinda presses a small button on her bracelet, and a thick green smoke sprays into Jason's face. He coughs, his eyes burning, his lungs tightening. He feels himself start to collapse in his chair, his head filling with a thick fog and his thoughts becoming more difficult with every moment.

 As he falls forward, the hotel carpet rushing forward to meet him. ' _And that_ ,' he is able to curse to himself  briefly as everything starts to fade to darkness, _'is why you never let your guard down around a Luthor.'_


	4. Groundwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the reveal in JLU's Batman Beyond legacy episode

Doctor Walter Richard Shreeve waits in silence. Well, he doesn’t really have much choice in the matter—silence is all he can know without his suit. But this particular silence is pregnant with anticipation. He can feel the vibrations of doors opening and shutting in the Blackgate high-security-wing surrounding him. It radiates through the floors, sending information to his fingers. Someone is currently going from cell to cell—not every cell, certainly many appear to be skipped—and making their way slowly toward him. He carefully counts the minutes between each door opening and closing. About five to seven. Someone is questioning, searching for something, being careful.

By the time his own cell door slides open, Shreeve has adopted a posture of suave boredom—a posture he almost drops as he stares at the unfamiliar figure in his doorway. The man before him is tall and muscular, his fit frame covered in a black compression shirt and grey fatigue pants. The man’s hair is streaked with silver and his right eye is covered in a simple black eye-patch. Shreeve tries to remember if he’s ever seen the man before, but it doesn’t take long for him to feel certain that he doesn’t know him from Adam.

The man silently holds up a small, spherical node. Shreeve recognizes it immediately and doesn’t even hesitate for a moment when the man presents it like an offering; he snatches it from the man’s fingers and slips it into his left ear.

Suddenly the whole world clicks into clarity again. A roar of sound, a cacophony. The hum of the prison lights. The whir of the air-conditioning fan. The muffled yells of prisoners throughout the complex.

Shreeve finds himself sighing, taking it all in. “Lovely,” he sighs. “Though I assume this isn’t charity. Who are you and why are you here?”

The man with the eye-patch scowls, his one visible eye narrowing. “Who I am isn’t important. But I’m here looking for information.”

“Then I’d suggest a university library over a prison,” Shreeve half-scoffs, his mouth twisting into a smirk. “Easier to get in and out of too.”

“I doubt a university would have the sources I need,” the man replies. “I’m looking for information about Batman. Specifically—who has it out for him recently.”

Shreeve blinks twice and then smirks. “I haven’t heard a thing.”

The man doesn’t look amused, but he mutters: “Funny. But irrelevant. My sources say you can read lips—and you’re smart enough to know what information is valuable. So, do you know if anyone has been talking about a major move on Batman?”

Shreeve shrugs. “I fail to see—even if I did have such information—what benefit it would be to share it with you. You’re a stranger who has offered me nothing. And please don’t make some sort of plebian threat. Those, frankly, are beyond boring by now.”

The man in the eye-patch is silent for a moment before saying, “You can keep the hearing aid. My guess is that it would be a tactical benefit in here if people still think you can’t hear them…”

“A generous offer,” Shreeve agrees. The hearing aid doesn’t give him nearly the range of sound that his suit would, but the idea of hearing anything at all makes him nearly shudder in pleasure. But this is freely offered—if this man wants information, he’ll have to give more. “I keep the aid _and_ you share why you’re asking about the Batman.” The man in the eye-patch looks ready to scoff, but Shreeve holds up his hands and grins. “I promise you, it will be worth it.”

The man hesitates then says: “Batman is missing. He was taken.”

Shreeve raises an eyebrow. That is useful information; if he manages to escape Blackwater soon, he’ll have fewer obstacles in his way. Still, a part of him feels strangely saddened by the news. Batman has been… interesting. And if anyone should kill him, Shreeve has always hoped it would be himself, revenge for having the miracle of sound stolen from him.

After a moment, Shreeve admits: “There has been someone reaching out to Gotham’s regular players. I have seen rumblings of it. They asked for Batman to be ‘kept busy’ for a very particular window. No one was allowed to try and kill him yet. Just—”

“—keep him busy,” the man finishes.

Shreeve nods. “And wear him down, perhaps. Seems like a fairly sound strategy, doesn’t it?”

“Who was doing the ‘reaching out’?”

A shrug then, followed by a half-smirk on Shreeve’s lips. “No idea. I was already locked up. But whoever it was, they seem to have had a lot of credits to offer. Millions even. That’s what dear Professor Billings seemed to be talking about, anyway. Follow the money—and maybe you’ll find the Bat.”

The man with the eyepatch nods. “Thank you for the help, Doctor Shreeve.”

 “Oh, the pleasure was mine.” In the darkness, Shreeve closes his eyes… and listens.

.

.

“Any luck?” Jason asks again, probably for the fifth time in just a few minutes. He can hear the clicking of keys over his earpiece, followed by a sharp: _[[No.]]_

Jason scowls and stares at the Tokyo horizon. He had woken up miles away from Luthor’s hotel room, his head pounding in response to the knock-out drugs. Jason had seriously considered storming back to Luthor, this time gun in hand and demanding answers a _lot_ less pleasantly. But then he had noticed the data chip taped to his wrist. The information had been heavily encoded, much too sophisticated for Jason to break; computers and he had a complicated relationship—he could work with them all right, but he never took to them like Tim did. So, Jason did the only thing he could think of: he stripped the data off of the chip and sent it to someone who could break the encryption. Which is how he has ended up on the line with Bruce again…

“Anything now?” Jason asks.

 _[[You ask again, and I’m hanging up,]]_ Bruce replies coldly. _[[This is delicate work. Luthor’s coding is sophisticated.]]_

“Yeah, we’ll buy her a freakin’ medal.” Jason groans and rubs his head again. It’s still throbbing, and Jason can barely keep his eyes open. He tries to remember exactly when he slept last—being knocked out not exactly counting. The aches and pains of his body have been starting to tally and his healing ability hasn’t been able to keep up. But he can’t stop now, not yet.

There is a beeping sound now, and Jason barely stops himself from saying: “Anyth—“

_[[Got it. It’s an audio file. I’m sinking it to this frequency now.]]_

Jason’s earpiece crackles and Lucinda Luthor’s voice travels through. _[[Congratulations on breaking my encryption. I guess I will reward you with something for your pains. I do apologize for not giving you this information in person, but you can understand my position, or you likely will soon. When going into business with scorpions, one must protect themselves. So, this message will only play once and then it will disintegrate into inaudibility.]]_ Jason hears Bruce curse, followed by clicks and the sounds of the Batcomputer as he tries to counter-act Luthor’s defense. Jason just sighs and closes his eyes, listening intently.

_[[There is a temple, high in the Himalayas, on the peek nearest where I met you and the Batman with the alien. It is easily confused with the other temples of the area, except that it has a jade tiger on the door. That is how you will notice it. The people who I conducted business with were there, though they likely are not now. The information I gave them requires a lab to be used. The temple would be inconvenient. You may find clues there, however. Whether you go or not is not my concern. I did take the time to research you some, Mr. Todd, while you were incapacitated. I must say, you do seem to have a complicated relationships with Bats… fighting the old, saving the new. But I do trust that, if you are compromised, that you will not reveal how you came about this information. More specifically, if you do reveal this exchange to my former business associate in any way, even under torture, then know that there will be people sent after me. And assuming that I survive the ordeal, and be assured that I am a survivor, I will hunt down whatever scrap of you is left and make you suffer for endangering me. That is all.]]_

The message crackles, pops, and then is silent. Jason is more than mildly impressed that Luthor’s threats sounded about as serious as his own. “Got all that?” Jason whispers.

_[[I wasn’t able to preserve the file—it’s gone now. But, yes, I heard what she said.]]_

“When’s the soonest flight you can get me to the Himalayas?”

_[[We’re running out of time. I’ve contacted the Justice League. Flash and Superman will meet up with you at the temple, and Green Lantern is sending a Boom Tube.]]_

Jason winces. Great, all he needs is to add nausea to all of the other aches and pains… but Bruce is right. Travel is taking too much time. Who knows what is happening to Terry?

.

.

For the Flash, the world moves in slow motion, and a minute can seem like an eternity. Which is why she offers only a quick, “Hihappytomeetyou” when she first sees the man in the red helmet shuddering in the Himalayan cold. _Man_ , she notes, _he had to take a boom tube? Rough._ She prefers to run across the world to avoid those if she can. And this time she even got to have a little race with Superman. Plus, running and her super-speed metabolism keeps her warm. All in all, pretty shway.

“There are people inside,” Superman now declares, looking at the temple in front of them. “Ten of them, I think. The structure is mostly wood, but several rooms look blurry to me. They must have used lead paint.”

The man in the helmet nods. “Lead paint isn’t exactly common out here—that must have been intentional. They thought you might be snooping around, Superman.”

“Boringboringboring.” The Flash taps her foot at super-speed, causing the snow around her foot to become crushed flat. “Canwegoinnowandlookforclues?”

“I’m game.” The man in the helmet pulls out two guns, the chargers flashing at ready. “I’m in the mood to hurt things.

“No,” Superman states flatly. “No guns.”

The man stiffens at the spine and whirls around to face Superman. “Oh give me a break! I won’t kill anybody!”

“No.”

The man curses and sticks the guns back in their holsters. “Fine, oh great and powerful alien leader. After you.” The man makes a low, sarcastic bow. Kal grimaces and then floats toward the temple’s entrance.  
  
Then everything explodes. Fire is everywhere. “Wehavetogosavethepeople…” Flash says in one breath, but then she notices figures dressed in black running toward her, swords poised and ready. “Ohnevermindtheyarecomingtokillus.”

The battle lasts seconds rather than minutes. Flash takes down three guys pretty lickity-split, though one manages to slice her with a sword on her arm. It’s barely more than a scratch, but she’s annoyed that he even got that. To hit her while she was moving at super-speed… these guys are pretty good. Superman creates a small whirlwind with his breath and speed, taking down five of these mysterious ninjas all at once. The man in the helmet takes down one ninja with intense ferocity, and then looks around at the bodies around him.

“Way to make a guy feel inadequate,” he mutters.

“Sorryjustwantedtomakeitquick. Nobiggieyouareprettygoodyourself!” Flash grins and speeds over the masked man’s side. “Soanyideawhotheseguysare?”

“Yeah,” the man answers gravely. He taps the side of his helmet, as if triggering an earpiece. “Old man? We’ve got a problem.” He reaches down and pulls a button from the unconscious body lying on the snow. The button is silver and intricate, unique like nothing Flash has ever seen. But the man in the mask seems to recognize it, turning it in his fingers slowly. “League of Assassins. I think the one who nabbed Terry is Ra’s Al Ghul.”

.

.

The world is still hazy, like he’s trapped in clouds, but it is slowly coming into focus. He is cold. He is strapped to some sort of medical table. From the sounds around him, he thinks he is more likely in a lab than a hospital. His body feels heavy, weighed down. He tries to move his fingers, and he can do so somewhat—but it takes real concentration.

“Oh good, you’re conscious,” an accented voice says. Terry tries to turn his head, causing his vision to swim and lurch. He groans. “Careful—we’ve kept you unconscious for quite some time. You must take it slow. Now, tell me your name.”

Terry licks his lips and struggles for voice. “Terry Mc—no, wait. I… I don’t know who you are. I shouldn’t…”

“I know your identity, Mr. McGinnis. I was just checking to make sure you do. I need to be assured that the low-level of oxygen to your brain didn’t cause any major or long term damage. Now, count to twenty for me, please.”

Terry does so, his voice sounding scratchy and out of use to his own ears. The man makes a humming noise and Terry can hear him typing something down.

“What… who are you? Where am I?”

There is silence for a moment, and then a bespeckled and silver-haired blur that Terry assumes is a man emerges in his view. “My name is Dr. Ivan Geboren. You are in my care at an undisclosed location.”

Terry frowns, vaguely recalling black cloaked figures, an alley way, a sword slashing at him, a blow to the head that had made him stumble. “Were those ninja guys yours?”

“Not mine. My employer’s. Hold still please—” Geboren reaches forward and Terry feels a sharp pain in his arm. He cries out at the unexpected sensation. “Good, nerves are responding. Now, I need you to—”

“I’m not doing anything! What do you mean your employer? Where the hell am I?!” Terry uses all the energy he has to struggle against the bonds keeping him down. But his body feels weak and the cuffs are tightly secure, so nothing budges. The only result of the struggle is that the metal from the wrist cuff cuts into his arm a bit; Terry can feel a trickle of blood trickle across his hand.

“No, no, stop!” The doctor growls, “If you continue to harm yourself by struggling, I will have to sedate you again, which is risky for your brain. I prefer not to—”

“What do you want with me?!” Terry screams, his horse voice cracking with lack of use for… how long? Terry has no clue. The thought terrifies him.

“Count yourself lucky, boy,” a soft voice breaks through Terry’s struggles. The sound is cold and dry; it sends a chill down Terry’s spine for reasons he can’t explain. “Your pitiful existence is going to serve the greater good.”

A dark cloaked figure comes forward, shoulders hunched over. Terry still can’t see much detail, but from what he can make out the person looks small, broken. Yet Terry still finds himself filled with unease.

“Who are you?” he asks, his eyes straining for details.

“We’ve met before, though I looked much different then. This body is at least male, though it is hard to tell now.” A rasping cough escapes the person’s lips and Terry sees the figure’s shoulders shudder with strain. “I was once the man who brought down civilizations. Now I am barely anything. But you, boy, will change that. If I cannot have the Detective, I shall take the next best thing…”

The tone of the word ‘detective’ causes Terry’s breath to catch in his throat. “Ra’s…?” Terry trains off, his mouth turning the ‘s’ into a near ‘z.’ The figure snorts.

“It is pronounced ‘Raish,’ as you should very well know by now. I shudder to think that you are the one who is supposed to live up to the Detective’s legacy. How disappointing. How plebian.”

Terry scowls. “And yet you went pretty far out of your way to get me. Why?”

“I thought it should have been fairly obvious by now. But then, as we have established, you are rather lacking in brilliance. I need a new body, boy, and I will only accept the best. One which will restore me to strength and allow me the power to command again. Yet all of my heirs are dead—I have no blood relations left who are worthy to be my vessel. And so I would take on the form of my rejected heir, he who could have been my son-in-law and second in power if only he were not so stubborn. I will have the body of Bruce Wayne as my vessel. Any less would be an insult to my name.”

“Er… okay?” Terry’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “So, why kidnap me? It’s not like Wayne is going to come after me in person. You’re not going to capture him this way.”

“I do not seek to capture the Detective. I have already resigned myself to the secondary body. It is not ideal, but an incomplete Bruce Wayne is better than none.”

Terry shakes his head, trying to clear the fog and hoping that will help al Ghul make more sense. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he finally admits. “At all.”

“Oh, don’t play naïve,” Ra’s snaps. After a few moments, the raspy voice begins to chuckle darkly. “Oh my, you really don’t know, do you? The Detective never shared his discovery with you.”

“What? What discovery? What are you talking…?” Terry stops himself. This is a trap. It has to be. His vision is becoming sharper, and he can see Ra’s yellowed teeth spread wide in a wolfish smile.

“His discovery of what you are, Mr. McGinnis.” Ra’s al Ghul shuffles forward, moving his head so that his mouth is next to Terry’s ear. The hollow breathing makes Terry’s blood run cold, but not as much as al Ghul’s next words, the revelation which shatters Terry’s world entirely.

.

.

“It all matches up,” Dick Grayson agrees. “I followed up on Shreeve’s information, and the credits offered Billings is a match for an old League of Assassins route. And Ra’s al Ghul is one of the few people outside of the family or the League who know that Terry is Batman. Between that and the assassins at the temple, it _has_ to be him.” Jason nods in agreement, which makes Dick feel a bit out of sorts. When was the last time he and Jason agreed on anything?

“Ra’s al Ghul is dead,” Bruce snaps in return.

Jason rolls his eyes in response and mutters: “Sure. Just like he has been before—about a thousand times.” Jason’s biting tone isn’t quite as harsh as it usually is. The younger former-Robin looks like he could pass out at any moment. Fading bruises, a mixture of Boom Tube nausea, and exhaustion are writ clearly on his face. “Supposed impossibilities aside, how are we going to find Terry?”

Dick frowns. “And why would the League want him? They’ve never gone after any of us except to get to you, Bruce. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It might have something to do with the break-ins in Japan,” Jason says. “I was trying to track these guys down and managed to catch up with one of them. Now that I think about it, the guy I fought may as well have had ‘League of Assassins’ trained written all over him. They were stealing research about implanting human consciousness into machines. You know, kind of like the Joker did with Tim.” Jason pauses to mutter a few more curses under his breath, as if he is required to just by sheer mention of the Joker’s name.

Dick raises an eyebrow in response. “And if Ra’s was working with Luthor, he also has nanotech research. Combined, he might be—”

“—trying to implant his consciousness into someone else’s body! Shit!” Jason slams his hand into the side of the computer. Dick immediately winces and glances at Bruce, but the former Batman doesn’t react at all to his computer’s abuse. Instead, a scowl is fixed on his face and his eyes are dark and distant.

“But why Terry?” Jason continues. “It makes no sense! Ra’s is a purist—he certainly thought all of us were beneath him. Bruce was the only one who really interested him. Going after Damien made sense, but Terry’s not—”

“My son,” Bruce finishes. There is a severity to the tone which makes Dick’s breath catch in his throat. He looks at Bruce again, waiting. “But if it is Ra’s, then he probably knows what I know.”

“Which is what?” Jason’s expression is one of impatience and annoyance. He hasn’t noticed Bruce’s tone or hesitation, Dick realizes. “What do you and Ra’s know?”

Bruce turns in his chair, his eyes fixed squarely on the costume cases across the room, the cold memorial of past of injury, secrets, and death.

“That Terry is my clone.”


	5. Divulgence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still spoilers for Batman Beyond's JLU episode, as well as a little bit of the Batman Beyond 2.0 comic

Terry feels his stomach drop, his insides morphing into what feels like a black hole. His throat is strained, and if he could breathe at all then he thinks he might start to hyperventilate. After a moment, he steadies himself enough to force out the word: “What?”

“Well, not a full clone. Not exactly,” the cracked and hollow voice of Ra’s al Ghul says. “Cadmus never did perfect that. They tried with the Nightwing clone project, amongst others. Imperfect. Insane. Broken. They could not recreate a hero from nothing but cells. Take Superman as one example—they needed a secondary DNA to create the clone known as Superboy. They used Lex Luthor’s, which likely says much about both about that man’s narcissism and his unhealthy fixation on the alien. But Superboy was a unique project—Kryptonian DNA lent itself well to filling in scientific gaps, and even then Cadmus could not recreate the process. So when they began on project Batman Beyond, they took a slightly different approach.”

Ra’s al Ghul’s gnarled fingers flick a switch on nearby control panel and a monitor lights up in the edge of Terry’s eyesight. On the screen, a side by side mapping of his own DNA and Bruce’s are clearly labeled, along with markers showing the sections of clear genetic match.

“Cadmus used fertility clinics to continue their experiments, which is likely where they came across your parents. Your mother’s DNA is still present, used to stitch together what they couldn’t replicate from the Detective. But your father’s DNA was rewritten and replaced. You are—genetically—the man known as Bruce Wayne. At least, mostly.” al Ghul sighs, sounding defeated and disgusted. “You will have to do. You are all I have. Forcing the real detective back into the Lazarus Pit is far too risky. It’s bad enough that my former invention isn’t compatible with Cadmus’s DNA structure and I must use these inelegant nanobots…”

“Why?” Terry chokes out finally. “Why would they do that? I’m just… my family is normal. We don’t have any connection to the Waynes.”

Ra’s attempts to shrug, but the cloaked shoulder trembles. “Why does Cadmus do anything? It was a horrid little organization—not much better than a hoard of children, poking at frogs to see if they’ll jump from pain. All very small picture. But they saw some value in the heroes; they wanted to preserve them. Recreate them. The files my servants stole seem to indicate that your parents were going to be murdered in front of your eyes, perhaps after leaving some form of entertainment. Nature and nurture—would such a thing recreate someone or something as extraordinary as the Detective? I doubt it. But that was their hypothesis. However the program was abruptly ended, leaving their plans unused.” The mouth of Ra’s al Ghul smiles a wide, yellowed, crooked grin. “And it is such a shame to let all of their efforts go to waste. I suppose it is only right that I take advantage.” The creature-like form nods at the doctor. “Make sure the bonding takes, but hurry. I want the body to be in my control as soon as possible.”

“It’s a delicate process,” Doctor Geboren insists, adjusting his glasses to hide his nervousness and disgust. “Not only do the nanobots have to be accepted by the blood, but they must also bond with healthy brain tissue. I must be sure it’ll work before we destroy the boy’s memories, and I must be sure that the wiping process does not damage the brain for _you_ , my lord.”

Ra’s nods again. “I trust you to do your best, doctor. And I trust that you may do it faster than anyone else. Otherwise,” the hollow voice hardens menacingly, “why would I keep you around?”

Doctor Geboren half-gulps and quickly turns back to his work as the twisted, cloaked form leaves the room.

Terry knows he needs a plan to escape. He knows he should be testing and calculating any spots of weakness in his bonds. He knows he should mentally create a psychological profile of Doctor Geboren and see what he can exploit in order to make escape more likely. He knows he cannot forget Bruce’s training.

But, for now, all Terry can do is swallow a pain in his throat as a tear streaks down the side of his face. “Dad…” he whispers, and is not quite sure whose memory he’s calling out to.

.

.

“And… and you’ve known all this time?” Dick finds himself asking, the anger boiling familiar in his guts.

“Not all this time,” Bruce corrects. “After the first time Terry had a major injury, I drew blood to keep some spare.”

Dick nods. He remembers the deal—always be ready for an emergency transfusion. “And you logged it in the computer.”

Bruce nods. “The computer runs an automatic profile so that I don’t have to enter all information by hand. It logged a partial match for both myself and Damien. It wasn’t until I took a closer look that I found traces of Cadmus tampering. A call to Wallor confirmed the rest.”

Dick scowls. “And you never told Terry?”

Bruce’s hand tightens on his cane, but his face remains impassive. “The memory of Terry’s father means the world to him. This information was… an unnecessary complication.”

“He deserved to know, Bruce!” The anger explodes in Dick now, fitting to him like an old glove. “Or were you just afraid that he wouldn’t want to fight the great fight anymore? That your war wouldn’t have a soldier all over again?”

“That’s not why—” Bruce starts.

“Excuse me. I need to be alone for a moment.”

The sound of Jason’s voice startles Dick a bit. He hadn’t realized that Jason was just standing there, silent, for the whole conversation. Now the second Robin’s voice sounds harsh, strained. He turns away abruptly, disappearing into the shadows of the cave’s caverns before Dick has a chance to reply.

“What is _he_ upset about?” Dick wonders aloud. Silence is his only response. Bruce turns back toward his computer.

“If it is Ra’s al Ghul and he is trying to use the nanobot research and technology from WayneTech, Star Labs, and Lexcorp, then it’s worth cross-referencing known League of Assassins connected locations with the space needed for such a project.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dick agrees. “You should do that. I’m… I’ll be right back.”

Dick follows Jason’s path, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu.

He remembers one of his first visits back to the cave after Jason had taken over the mantle as Robin. Dick and Bruce had yelled at each other for almost an hour, the way they often found themselves doing, but this fight had surprisingly been resolved. He remembers that Bruce had placed a hand on his shoulder and finally admitted, “I am proud of you. You know that, right? And you are always welcome here at the manor.” Dick hadn’t known that, actually, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he had pulled Bruce into a hug. The Batman had never been much of a hugger—had never really ever been able to express many more emotions than pain and anger—but he let himself be hugged when Dick needed it, when the situation was forced.

It had been over an hour after the fight’s conclusion that Dick realized that Jason was missing. Bruce had been furious, assuming that Jason had snuck out of the house to cause trouble somewhere—something he apparently had done before, Dick gathered. But something caused Dick to search the cave and its connected caverns. There, he had found the young teen, sitting on the cold stone ground, his knees pulled up to his chest. He tried to put on a tough face, but his eyes were puffy from crying. “So, am I fired?” Jason had snapped bitterly.

“What?” Dick remembers asking.

“You and Bruce, like, made up—right? So, are you back to being Robin? I mean, it wasn’t mine for long anyway. You can fucking have it.” He scowled to the best of his ability, but Dick thought—even in the darkness—that he could see Jason’s lower lip quiver.

Dick felt such a sadness and warmth for the kid in that moment—a rarity given how much Jason otherwise got on his nerves. He sat down next to the young teen and put on his best show-stopper smile. “No,” Dick said, “that’s your name. I’m Nightwing now. Nothing’s going to change that. Promise.”

Jason had looked skeptical, but relieved all the same. For a while, they just sat there in the dark. Looking back, the memory is one of the few Dick has where he remembers he and Jason seeming like brothers.

Now, Dick retraces that memory and finds himself in almost the exact same spot. And there is Jason, sitting on the cold ground, his knees pressed against his chest.

“Didn’t need you to come back here,” Jason mutters against his armored knees. “M’not a kid.”

“Didn’t say you were,” Dick replies. “Just wondered what was bothering you.” After a few moments of silence, Dick continues. Silence has never been his strong suit. “It does hit some old nerves, huh? The way Bruce treats Terry? Always keeping secrets, having to have all the cards. He never did trust any of us to make our own decisions, I don’t know why I’d expect it to be different with Terry, but—”

“Terry and I fucked,” Jason says in one rushed breath.

The cavern is silent for a long moment before Dick half-sputters and half-yells, “What? Seriously?”

Jason scowls in reply, turning his face back to his knees. “Yeah.”

“You’re old enough to be his father, Jason! He’s practically a kid!”

“I know…”

“And he’s a bat-kid—basically family!”

“I know…”

“And Bruce would kill you! Not to mention Superman and the Ju—”

“I said I know!” Jason shouts, his voice echoing off the rounded cavern walls. “Jesus, Big Bird, you think you’re saying anything that didn’t cross my mind a thousand times? Look, I know it wasn’t my best idea, but if we’re being honest it probably wasn’t my worst either. Terry’s just,” Jason hesitates for a moment. “Well, he’s a good kid. You know that. And he made me feel… better about who I was. I kind of thought he was helping me get over some of my issues. When I was around Terry I felt, well, happy. Like kind of saved or something stupid like that. I thought it meant… that I was over being fixated on Bruce.”

Dick winces. “Oh.”

“Yeah— _oh_.” Jason rubs his forehead and sighs. “I just don’t know what to do with this right now. Bruce’s clone? I mean… Jesus.”

“Partial clone,” Dick corrects with a half-smile that just earns him a blinding glare from Jason. “Look, you know what you do? Don’t worry about it for now. We need to help find Terry and make sure the kid’s alive. Then you can worry about the weird incestual Bat-daddy-issues thing.”

Jason looks up, one eyebrow raised. “Shit. Grayson? Have I mentioned recently that I really hate you?”

“Somewhat recently,” Dick admits.

“Probably not recently enough. Well, I hate you. I mean, you are totally and completely right in this situation. But I still hate you.”

“Noted,” Dick sighs. He has the urge to sit down next to Jason, to offer him some sort of brotherly support like he did all those years ago. Instead, he just offers a hand and helps to pull Jason to his feet. In a way, he feels like it’s the same thing.

“Does Bruce know?” Dick asks. He wonders how many secrets they all try to keep from each other and realizes that it is likely far too many.

Jason shrugs. “He’s Batman. Who the fuck ever knows what and how much he knows?”

They walk out of the caverns in silence, only to be greeted by Bruce unloading a series of fairly nasty looking weapons.

“What are those for?” Jason asks, hiding the tension in his voice fairly well, though Dick suspects it’s not enough to fool the World’s Greatest Detective.

“You, I assume,” Bruce replies. “A building connected to the League of Assassins has been pulling a great deal of power from the grid lately. It matches WayneTech’s report of the approximate amount of power needed to keep nanobots stable. I’ve sent the location to the Justice League, but—”

Jason steps forward and takes a black-sheathed katana sword from the table in front of Bruce. “How fast can I get there?”

“Jason!” Dick snaps. “You’re about to fall over. When did you last even sleep?”

“I’m fine,” Jason responds.

Bruce nods. “I mentioned that you would likely want to go with the League to try and get Terry. Superman said he was concerned about your… aggression when you went to investigate the temple.”

Jason scowls. “Well, you can tell Supes to fuck off—or, hell, I’ll tell him! I’ll play the nice game if I can, but if it means the difference between saving Terry from Ra’s al Ghul or not, I know what I’ll choose. Got a problem with that, Bruce?”

Bruce is silent a moment before saying, “I don’t agree with your code, just as you don’t agree with mine. But I can’t go out there—so you’d better bring him back safely. Regardless of what choices you make.”

Jason looks stunned for a moment before he masks his expression into something cold and determined. “I will.”

“Jason,” Dick interrupts. “I said ‘help’ find Terry. You don’t need to take this on alone. Stay here and heal up—I’ll go with the League.”

Dick barely sees the sword move from its sheath before it’s at his throat. Even injured, Jason is fast. “See? I can do this,” Jason insists. Then his voice lowers, softens as he re-sheathes the sword. “I _have_ to do this.”

After a few more moments of weapon gathering and Bruce explaining some of the newer, higher tech options, a Justice League boom-tube opens in the cave. Dick can’t quite explain his anxiety as Jason steps into the blinding light, but he suddenly wishes he had taken a moment to say: _“Be careful, brother.”_


	6. Endings and Beginnings

The world is a colorful whirlwind of chaos. Blurs of red and yellow, black and silver as Flash and Superman zip through the black mass of armed assassins. Bright flashes of green as Lantern tries to push more warriors to the side. Splatters of red as Red Hood’s katana slashes through one assassin’s arm, while severing a tendon in another’s leg. They should be making progress, they should be finding Terry—but the halls of this building are shockingly narrow, making fighting intentionally difficult, and every new wave of black-clothed League of Assassin’s members pushes them slightly away from their goal and into another labyrinthine hallway.

“This is taking too long,” Jason growls. His sword swings just shy of lethal, blood splattering back across his face. “They’re stalling us.”

Superman blows a cool puff of air from his lips, freezing a League member’s feet to the stone floor. It’s something at least. He looks around. “It’s misdirection. We need to know where Terry is, and fighting these guys isn’t getting us there.

“Imonit!” Flash yells. She zips out of sight, pushing the ninjas out of her way in a bright blur. A few seconds later—as Jason breaks another warrior’s arm—she’s back. “Nosignofhim. Thisfloorisjustfilledwithmoreofthoseguys. Somanyhallways—veryfewactualrooms.”

Superman pushes another League member away like he’s moving aside something as light as Styrofoam and closes his eyes. He listens. “There are people below us. The floor is lead-lined though. I don’t know what’s down there.”

“But we need to venture into the unknown,” Lantern agrees. The small boy creates a container for himself, keeping the hostiles away, and a swirling green light soon becomes a large drill. Soon, as the light fades, a large hole in the floor has appeared.

“Let’s do this then,” Jason growls. He elbows one of the League fighters in the face and, without looking back, plunges into the dark abyss. When he lands, he does so badly—he feels something in his ankle crack and snap.

Superman floats down softly. The bastard. “You okay?”

“Fine.” It’s only half a lie, Jason thinks. “Can you seal up that hole so we only have to deal with the crazy ninjas from _this_ floor?”

Once Flash and Lantern land, Superman nods and bends a nearby firedoor off of its hinges, sealing it to the ceiling with a combination of heat vision and cold breath. “That should hold it.”

“Great,” Jason looks around—this floor is a bit more open than the fortress-like system above. God, Terry has to be here. If he’s not, they have no other clues to go on. “Should we split up to cover more ground or push on ahead?”

Superman frowns and considers. “We have enough power to make it through if we break into two teams. How about Flash and I will take the West side, you and Lantern take the East.”

Jason nods. “Sounds good.” Superman nods, and soon he and Flash disappear in a blur.

The sage young Green Lantern stares at Jason a moment. “You care for him deeply. Don’t worry—we will find him. Just strengthen your heart.”

Jason grits his teeth and feels the throbbing of his ankle as it slowly begins to heal. “It’s not my heart I’m worried about.” He lets out a sigh and re-sheaths his sword. “Come on. Let’s go.”

They turn towards the next room and head into the unknown.

.

.

The wallowing is over, he decides. There’s no more time for shock or mourning—after all, he’s Batman. And he needs to act like it, no matter who else (or what else) he also is.

Terry takes a deep breath and stares at where Doctor Geboren is fiddling with data on a computer screen, and then he lets out a loud hiss of pain. Geboren raises an eye and looks over at Terry’s wincing face. “It’s the left hand cuff,” Terry explains through gritted teeth. “I injured my wrist in the fight, but I think the cuff cutting into it damaged something. It went numb a while ago, but now it feels—argh, fuck!—like it’s on fire!”

Geboren snorts. “You expect me to believe that?”

Terry gasps again through a grimaced mouth. “You can believe whatever you want, but it _hurts_. Damn it—I hope nothing’s _permanently damaged_. It feels—ah! Fuck!”

Terry tries not to watch Geboren’s face too closely, but he can see the wheels turning. The doctor knows it could be a trick (most likely he thinks it _has_ to be a trick), but wrists are finicky and fragile things… and the Demon’s Head wouldn’t want a damaged body when he takes possession of it.

Geboren finally sighs and opens a drawer. He produces a compact tranquilizer gun and walks over to Terry cautiously. “I’m going to examine you, but if you try to escape, I have enough tranquilizers here to take down a small rhinoceros. Are we clear?”

Terry nods and feels himself holding his breath as Geboren slowly unlocks the left cuff. The moment the springs click the metal open, Terry moves—he grabs the hand holding the gun and twists sharply. As both Terry and Doctor Geboren know, wrists are _finicky and fragile things_ —Geboren’s snaps loudly and he screams as the gun clatters to the floor. Terry pulls him sharply forward and cracks his skull into Geboren’s own. Head-butts may not be elegant, but they can do the trick in a pinch.

Geboren sinks down to the floor—twitching slightly but mostly unconscious. Terry reaches with his free hand and finds the electric lock pick he always has hidden near his hairline at the back of his neck—that was Bruce’s idea. _“If you’re captured, they might strip you,”_ he had said. _“But there are places they won’t think to look. Even the most suspicious get over confident when their prey is bare before them. Use that over confidence.”_

Terry clicks open his right wrist without too much struggle, and the ankle locks come off easier than that. He is without a suit or a utility belt, dressed in what seem to be simple hospital scrubs, but Terry knows that he’s not vulnerable. Not at all. After all… he’s _Batman_.

.

.

Jason feels his newly split lip healing as breaks another League of Assassin member’s arm. He wishes he had brought one of his Red Hood helmets, but there was no time to swing by a safe-house and grab one. But he’s not used to guarding his face so closely and it’s taking a toll—he’s taken a few too many slices and hits around his head. Enough that he’s feeling a little dizzy—a little less guarded. His normal reaction would just be to become more lethal: more headshots, more killing stabs. But Superman gave explicit instructions and Jason doesn’t feel like going toe-to-toe with an angry Kryptonian today. Not unless he has to.

A bright green Monkey God projection with several arms picks up several League of Assassin members at once and bashes them aside. Stupid Green Lanterns, Jason thinks—all the power in the universe, but limited by their imaginations and morals. If he had a ring like that, this base would be rubble by now.

Soon, another hallway is cleared.

“How many goddamn ninjas are in this place?” Jason huffs. He wipes the blood from the side of his head and feels another wound start to knit itself back together slowly. Too slowly.

“It has become more concentrated as we have progressed,” the child-like Lantern hums. “I believe we are getting close.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like the way Ra’s is herding us.” Jason taps on the walls around them carefully. “Feels like there’s another hallway on his side. I say we make a new door here, catch ‘em at least a bit off guard. Think you can do that, GL?”

“Fill your mind with compassion and anything is possible,” the Lantern softly replies, bringing himself into a seated hover above the ground. Jason kind of wants to punch the kid in his sage little face.

Soon, a giant green knife appears, cutting a wide square into the wall. Jason pushes hard, and the wall falls forward with a loud crash and a smoky cloud of stray building materials. It doesn’t take Jason long to faintly sees bodies littering the ground of the new hallway—the smell of dust and blood muddles in the air.

“Wow, did not expect that. Kai-Ro, is that you?” a familiar voice half-laughs. It’s a laugh of relief and exhaustion. Terry.

“It is,” the Green Lantern replies. “And another.” The dust clears and Jason knows he’s visible. Knows guiltily as he sees Terry’s face shift first into shock and then into a warm glow and a small smile. The thrill that the happiness of Terry’s face gives him is almost sinful. Forget about him being Bruce's clone, Jason wants to run over and scoop Terry in his arms, back him against the wall and kiss him silly.

Instead he gestures with his sword. “I’d normally say at this point, ‘My name is Luke Skywalker and I’m here to rescue you,’ but…” Jason looks around at the bodies, some barely moving with soft groans and others still, “…you seem like you’re doing a pretty good job at rescuing yourself, ‘Princess.’”

“What can I say? I learn from the best,” Terry smirks. He picks up a stray sword from one of the unconscious assassins and tests the balance as he walks over to Jason. “And while I appreciate the help getting out of here,” Terry pauses with a smirk, “call me ‘princess’ again and I’ll kick your ass.”

“Right now, you probably could,” Jason admits. “But let’s wait until we’re clear of the murdering ninja goons to test that out, shall we?”

“That would be prudent,” the young Lantern interjects. “Let us retrace our path and get out of this place hastily.”

“Hold up!” Terry says, gesturing behind him with his sword. “Who’s all here?”

“Us, Flash, and Supes,” Jason replies, noting the raise of an eyebrow from Terry. The kid clearly hadn’t expected the heavy hitters to all come out for him.

“In that case, we should double back to the lab where they were holding me. I just bolted, but there’s a lot of medical equipment and data that I’d really like to destroy if we have the fire power. Ra’s is trying to get a new body again and…”

“…and we want to stop that from happening like yesterday,” Jason agrees. He taps his belt where he keeps the C4 and pocket detonators. “I think I can manage that.”

“If so, we must act hastily,” Kai-Ro says, still hovering on his glowing green platform sagely. “It would be unwise to allow Ra’s al Ghul to put any further plans to hold you into action.”

“I’m not going back to being a guinea pig without a fight,” Terry snarls. “But agreed—let’s book it.”

They rush down the hallway, though dodging prone forms slows the two bats down (Kai-Ro just floats over the bodies, re-inflaming Jason’s somewhat irrational wish for violence aimed at said Green Lantern). At some point, Jason makes a flippant crack about Terry’s wardrobe (“Not a hospital gown with an open back? I’m slightly disappointed”) and Terry snorts, but most of his heart isn’t in it. They have a job to do. They reach the lab before long, and there’s a small blood smear on the floor and one screen is mildly cracked where Terry explains he tried to punch it, but otherwise the room is calm and empty.

“Damn,” Terry grumbles. “Geboren must have woken up and bolted.”

“Who?” Jason asks, scooping the explosive pieces out of his belt.

“Ra’s mad scientist. We probably have less time than we thought if he’s already awake and checked in.”

“No problem—I’ll set these and then we can bolt. GL, can you hold the perimeter while I set this up?”

“Of course, Jason,” the young voice replies calmly. He’s slightly out of Jason’s eye-sight, behind him, but soon a green forcefield surrounds the room. Jason grunts a thanks as he hands Terry two chargers and begins to set up another on the main computer.

He has just set the first one fully in place when the green glow around him shimmers, flickers, and falls.

“Kai-Ro? What gives?” Jason stands up and turns—and immediately a sword slides sharply under his ribs. He tries to yell, but it comes out quiet and wet as blood fills his throat. The last thing he hears before his body hits the cold floor is the hollow sound of Terry’s scream.

.

.

“JASON!” Terry screams as Ra’s al Ghul plunges his sword through the Red Hood's body, dangerously close to where his heart must be. Blood splatters across the floor for a horrifically silent moment. Then Jason falls, collapses, coughs blood, his eyes seemingly unable to fight to stay open. Terry grabs the sword next to him and rushes forward. He slices at the Demon Head’s decaying form, trying to keep the blow non-lethal—but it doesn’t matter anyway. Ra’s is faster than Terry could have imagined. Terry’s sword connects only with air and soon there’s a knife pressed against his throat. The decaying man’s wheezing is hollow and rough in Terry’s ear.

“One does not,” the voice rasps, “become known as the Demon’s Head, or the leader of the League of Assassins, by having no talent. I can still— _cough_ —use speed and stealth when I see fit. You see me as a corpse. I see me as a man who, even in this dying body, incapacitated a member of the Justice League and a nearly immortal international vigilante. Now…” he presses the knife edge against Terry’s skin, a small bead of blood oozing up at his throat. “…how much of a challenge do _you_ think you’ll present?”

“Well, that depends,” Terry mutters. “You want to keep my body intact, right? So, I’d say that leaves me some options.” Terry shifts to try and grab al Ghul’s knife hand, but the old creature slices his sword against Terry’s arm and kicks into the back of Terry’s knee, causing him to collapse slightly. The knife at his throat pivots; now the blade is pressed against his cheek, pointed to his eye.

“It would be ideal to keep your body in healable condition, yes,” Ra’s wheezes, “but I have options for what ‘healable’ means.” The Demon’s Head gives a hollow laugh then pulls a communicator out of his pocket. “Doctor Geboren, your patient is— _ARGH_!”

The communicator clatters to the floor as a thin, Japanese sword stabs through al Ghul’s shoulder from behind. Ra’s grips Terry hard by the hair, pushing the knife against his cheek as he stumbles forward. There’s very little blood coming from the new wound—just the smell of bone. But blood still smears the floor, so much so that that the near stumbling body of Jason almost slips as he tries to stand and ready his sword again.

“Your healing is impressive,” al Ghul coughs. “I did not expect you to be able to recover from that blow. It was, after all, humanly fatal. Perhaps I was focused on the wrong body of a protégé of the Bat after all.” Ra’s smiles a toothy, yellowed grin. “When this is all over, I’ll have to have Geboren examine your healing by taking you apart… slowly.”

Jason snarls and tries to rush forward wordlessly. He brings his blade down with a slash, but even with an injured shoulder, Ra’s can pivot smoothly. However, the movement causes him to loosen his grip on Terry in order to strike, giving the young Batman an opportunity to intentionally drop all his weight to the ground. Some of Terry’s hair rips from his skull, but the sudden movement on Terry’s part causes al Ghul to stumble, to be unguarded.

Jason strikes quickly. He stabs his sword into al Ghul’s leg and the sound of the hollow bones breaking and tendons splitting fills the air. Ra’s—to his credit—only hisses and doesn’t yell.

For a long moment, the room is quiet, and there is only the heavy sound of Jason and Terry’s breathing. Then Jason pulls out a long, twisted knife.

“Jason.” Terry’s voice is firm, commanding. “No.”

Jason opens his mouth and winces. His voice is hoarse and his lungs potentially damaged, but he still strains to speak. “Are you serious— _seriously_ saying I shouldn’t kill him? That there’s some ‘good’ in him? That—that—that his life is worth anything at all?” Jason wheezes, his teeth gritted. “That I should follow the Batman code because it’s somehow good for me? For the world?”

“No,” Terry sighs. “It’s because I don’t want to see any more bloodshed today. And honestly,” Terry stands up slowly and glares at Ra’s, “because forcing the guy who’s obsessed with immortality to die slowly in cell in Belle Reve sounds more like justice to me.”

Jason pauses. Then he laughs, his voice wet and hollow. “That’s… that’s okay then. And I guess Supes will… be less furious with… me… and—” His sword clatters. He falls. It’s been too much all at once and his body can’t keep up anymore.

Terry rushes forward, catching him roughly before he hits the ground. “Jason? Jay? Do you hear me? Jay?!”

At that point, there’s a crash as Superman and Flash arrive on the scene. And Terry should look up, should talk to them. Should make sure Ra’s al Ghul is secure and bound. But instead he just stares as Jason’s eyes fade in focus and flutter closed once more.

.

.

When he opens his eyes, everything is foggy, too distant. This body has a strange far-away ache and the lights are a bright, sterile white. ‘I'm in a hospital,’ his brain concludes. He tries to piece everything together, but his head is still swimming. Jason tries to sit up, but he's stopped both by the IVs in his arm and a sharp “don't move” from his bedside. It’s all too familiar, and for a horrible moment he’s afraid that he’s back in Spellbinder’s dream. He hesitantly looks up into a crackling intensity of blue eyes.

But this is not the Bruce of Spellbinder’s vision—not young and parental and, okay yeah, really hot. No, this is older Bruce, all dignity, wrinkles, and white hair. But his eyes are the same. They never change—those Batman eyes.

 “You shouldn't be moving now, Jay.” Something in Jason's chest tightens at the sound of Bruce's nickname for him, for all the history there. For the fact that the last time he heard the nickname, it had been from Terry—Bruce’s _clone_ , fuck it all. “You've been out for a while and, while your expedited healing has helped, your body still has a lot of damage to repair.”

“Oh shut up, I’m fine.” Jason sits up and pulls out the IVs impatiently. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Bruce leans back, his hands tightening on his cane. “Can’t a father be worried about his son?” he asks dryly.

Jason snorts. “We haven’t been that for… honestly, we were never that. Not really. You maybe were to Dick, and Tim, and Damien. But I was never really a son. And you sure as shit were never my father.” Jason laughs to himself a moment and shrugs. “Which, honestly, is fine. I fucking hated my father.”

A sad half-smile grows on Wayne’s face but never fully reaches his eyes. There’s a sadness there that speaks of both new and old hurts. They sit in silence for a moment before Jason asks, “So, speaking of _complicated_ relationships… how’s Terry?”

Bruce hesitates. “Fine, as far as I’m told. He’s not speaking to me. At the moment.”

“Ah,” Jason pushes himself out of bed. Silently, Bruce hands him a paper bag containing a change of clothes—seemingly from one of Jason’s own safe-houses. Shit, got to love the snoopiness and ever preparedness of the old Bat. As Jason quickly pulls on the well-worn jeans he mutters, “would this have anything to do with the keeping the whole ‘being a clone-son-thing’ from him?”

“It would,” Bruce agrees. “And, if I’m being honest, I’m not entirely sure how to apologize for it.”

“Yeah, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you your whole life was basically a constructed lie and that instead you had to hear it from an insane supervillain trying to steal your body’ is a bit difficult to communicate sincerely,” Jason agrees, zipping up his red and black hoodie. “Besides, in my experience, words like that ring pretty empty in the Bat world.” Jason looks up, trying to hide how eye contact with Bruce during this conversation makes him still feel like a little kid. “Actions are best. Speaking louder than words and all that.”

“And what actions would best communicate ‘I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you’ et cetera?” Bruce sighs with a sad smile. Jason shrugs.

“The incident told him that what he is—that _who_ he is—isn’t about what he’s _done_. It’s about you. That it’s all been about you. So, you need to do something that lets him know he’s his own person with his own legacy. If you can’t come up with something for that, well, then the problems bigger than you thought.”

Bruce nods, staring at the blank hospital walls for a moment. “Come by the cave tonight, will you? And bring Terry?”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “You want me at the cave? Like, willingly? Okay, I really am in a dream aren’t I? Or are you another clone? No seriously, where is the real Bruce Wayne?”

Bruce scowls and shuffles to his feet. He’s clearly not rising to the banter. Typical Batman. “Yes, I want you at the cave. You and Terry.”

“Uh huh. And where is he? I’ll obviously have to know that so I can pass on this information to him.”

“Dick is monitoring his patrol. You’ll have to ask him. I’ve been trying to… respect Terry’s wishes and stay away.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “And you’re _really_ not a clone? Huh. Well, it’s a start, old man. Good for you,” He smiles and shakes his head. “Who ever said you can’t teach an old bat new tricks?”

Before Bruce can answer, Jason turns and walks out the hospital room door. First order of action—ditch the hospital quietly and thus avoid problematic questions and paperwork. Second—track down Dick Grayson and ask him where he can find Terry. Although, if he knows Terry like he thinks he does, he already has a couple ideas.

.

.

Max raises an eyebrow as Terry shoots down another carrot-orange energy drink. “Didn’t you just have a cup of coffee before going on patrol?”

“Sure,” Terry coughs, “but I’m still not planning on going to bed for hours.” He has to shout to be heard over the thumping music of the Juice Bar and, after a night of snarking at T-Gang members and keeping in touch with Dick Grayson over the comm, it hurts his throat.

“Aren’t you kind of burning the candle at both ends?” Max yells back. “What’s going on, Ter?”

Terry shakes his head. He can’t tell Max about what happened, has actually been avoiding this conversation as much as possible. For the past week, he’s actively avoided meeting her at her apartment or anywhere else where talking at any reasonable level can happen. He’s just not ready yet—just like he’s not ready to talk to Bruce. Besides, what would he say? After all, he understands why the old man didn’t tell him but… that doesn’t mean he forgives him. But it also doesn’t mean he doesn’t. Terry rubs the side of his head—still sore from where his hair was torn out last week—and scowls. It’s easier to just ignore it for now, have Grayson talk him through patrol, dance until his entire body feels like it is going to collapse so he doesn’t have to think. About being a clone. About Bruce lying to him. About Jason taking a seemingly impossibly long time to heal. Anything.

Terry pushes away from the table, ignoring Max’s annoyed yell after him, and joins the throng of people on the dancefloor. It’s the only place he can make sense of things right now. The flashing lights, the pulsing beat—he doesn’t have any decisions to make, doesn’t have anyone to talk to. He just feels and moves.

He dances until his shirt is soaked with sweat and his heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. He finally turns back to the table where he left Max… and stops. There’s a man sitting with Max now, one with short-cropped black hair and a self-satisfied smirk plastered on his face. A very familiar self-satisfied smirk.

“Hey there, Baby Bat,” the man says as Terry walks over.

“Jason!” Terry feels his eyes sting and his throat tighten slightly. “When did you wake up?”

“Earlier tonight, actually.” Jason nods toward the exit. “Not to interrupt your date, but can we talk?”

Max snorts and leaps to her feet, “Oh, this is definitely not a date. I just came here to keep an eye on Terry here, so if I can hand that job off to you…” Max grabs her bag and jacket. As she passes by Terry, she leans close to his ear. “He’s cute—I guess I can kind of see why you act like an idiot around him.”

Max laughs and bolts toward the exit as Terry rolls his eyes. But he supposes it’s true—he does act like an idiot around Jason. He stops caring about supposed-to’s or consequences. Like now—as they leave the club and walk into the attached alley—he should take a moment to ask if Jason’s okay, to tell him about the Justice League’s clean up of al Ghul’s compound, to give him a debrief on what’s been going on at all. But instead he just grabs Jason by the back of his neck and pulls him into a desperate kiss. One that Jason reciprocates both immediately and equally desperately. For a moment, they’re all hard angles and hands and lips and teeth. Jason kisses like he wants to devour Terry, to pull him into himself. Terry kisses like he can keep Jason in place by shear will, his arms wrapping Jason to him closely.

When they finally break, they’re nearly breathless. Jason buries his face in Terry’s neck, murmuring, “I was so worried about you, Ter. When you went missing.”

Terry smiles in the darkness and threads his hand through Jason’s short hair. “Back at you, when it took you a week to wake up.”

Jason half-laughs. “Well, aren’t we just a pair of worrying dorks…” He sighs and hesitates visibly for a moment. “I didn’t just come here for this, although this—” he pauses for another quick kiss, softer and less frantic than before “—is nice. But I, well, I talked to Bruce. He wants us to swing by the cave.” Terry feels his spine stiffen and his whole body go tense.

“I haven’t really—”

“Been talking to him? I know. The cycle of Bruce assholery continues. It always does. But part of the cycle—sadly—is giving him a chance to try and make it right. You don’t have to accept his attempt, but if you don’t hear it, you’ll just get more and more bitter and hateful. Trust me. I’ve done that. Several times, actually.”

Terry looks up then, eyebrows raised as he processes the request. “Wait, he wants _both_ of us there?”

“Yeah, I know. I think we should go just in case he’s being controlled by Starro or something.” Terry and Jason both laugh nervously for a moment, then are silent. The sound of Gotham traffic still permeates the city in the late hour and they both stand in the alley a moment, listening.

“I’ll be with you,” Jason promises. 

Terry smirks but the expression seems sad in the fluorescent lights. “You want to protect me, Jaybird? You know you can’t, right?”

“No, I can’t. And you probably don’t even really need it—you’re the Batman after all. But,” Jason kisses Terry on the side of his forehead, “that doesn’t stop be from wanting to try. I’m a big fan of lost causes, in case you haven’t heard.”

Terry coughs out a laugh. “Okay then… let’s see what the old man wants.”

.

.

The cave feels like it never changes. The smells, the dim lights, the echoing sound of bats. Even with the displays and costumes and computers shifting and upgrading throughout the years, Jason always feels like there is a sort of static nature to the cave, frozen in history by Bruce’s will.

The old man in question is sitting at the looming Bat-computer, Ace at his heels. Both Bruce and Ace look up as Terry and Jason make their way down the stairs. Terry is still a sweaty, tired mess, but his jaw is set and his eyes are determined. He looks so much like Bruce that it’s scary, Jason realizes.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Bruce says before either Jason or Terry has a chance to speak.

“Yeah, well, what else was I going to do on a Saturday night?” Terry jokes. His voice is light, but only on the surface. They’re all guarded and tense.

“Dick has been keeping me updated,” Bruce finally admits after a moment of painful silence. “It sounds like you’re doing well out there.”

“Yeah,” Terry replies, again with forced lightness. “Guess so.”

The silence stretches on for another series of painful breaths and Jason suddenly wishes something would blow up just so he’d have something else to focus on. Instead, Bruce tightens his grip on his cane and makes a face like he has tasted something painfully sour. Then he sighs.

“Terry, I’m very, very proud of you. And I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you the truth. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you—it was out of respect for your father. I didn’t want you to feel as if his death and your memories of him weren’t meaningful.”

“I don’t,” Terry replies sharply. “He may not have been my father biologically, thanks to Cadmus, but he’ll always be my dad. There’s nothing more meaningful than that.”

Bruce nods, “I agree. The same goes for you taking on the mantle of Batman. I gave you the suit before I knew anything about Cadmus’ project—you earned it and you’ve made it your own.”

“The fact that you’re his clone probably only affected his choice subconsciously because, you know, he’s a raging narcissist,” Jason quickly snarks. It’s getting way too serious for his taste.

Bruce glares at him, but Terry just cracks up laughing. It starts at first as a surprised giggle and then into a full, doubled-over laugh that he has to smother the sound of with his hand. “That,” Terry finally gasps through the last throws of a chuckle, “strangely makes sense in all this.” Then the young man straightens and looks at Bruce with a sigh. “Thanks, Bruce. And, well, I guess I should let you know…” his breath catches a moment, “…if I’m going to be a secret clone of someone, it could be worse. I hate that you hid it from me, but I don’t hate _you_. I guess, I guess what I’m saying is that, if I’m kind of your clone, I guess I don’t mind.”

“I mind,” Jason pipes up. “I mind a lot. It is twisted and disturbing, and I am creeped out by the whole thing.”

Terry smirks. “Oh really? How creeped out were you a half hour ago in the alley exactly?”

Jason shrugs, a sarcastic smile blooming on his face. “Hey, I never said I wasn’t able to push past that. After all, I have it on pretty good authority that I’m pretty disturbed and twisted myself.”

Bruce rubs his temple and grumbles to himself, “I’m seriously doubting my plan right now.”

Jason’s face falls back into a serious expression as he turns to his former mentor. “And what plan is that?”

Bruce sighs and stands shakily, his grip firm on his cane as he looks over at Terry. “Terry, I’d like you to resume operating out of the cave. With my aid if you need it, but not without request. No more monitoring.”

Terry’s eyebrows raise slightly, his forehead pinching in confusion. “Wait, no monitoring? Like no audio, no cameras?”

“Not unless you call on me,” Bruce agrees. “You’re your own hero. Your own man. This is how I show you that. I’ll act in the same capacity that Alfred did for me—I can do that much. I’ll be in the cave by the computer, waiting if you need me to notify you of an alarm, to use the satellites, or call in the League. But I won’t monitor the line anymore. I won’t tell you how to be Batman. You can make those choices yourself.”

“Woah, wait, hold up!” Jason steps forward, his eyes flashing in anger. “That’s a great sentiment and all, but Terry just got kidnapped by the League of Assassins. They could still be after him! And, if not them, then some other group is going to try and take him out because that’s what _happens_ in this business.”

“Agreed,” Bruce says flatly.

“So your solution is to have him go out on the Gotham streets with absolutely no backup? I knew you were old, Bruce, but I didn’t think you were senile!”

“Who said anything about no backup?” Bruce’s mouth quirks into a small, half-smile as he turns to the computer and clicks several keys. An image of a sketched out costume appears on screen next to a series of weapon blueprints. “Jason, meet Red Wing. The identity is yours if you want it.”

Jason’s breath catches in his throat as he looks at the projection. The design is sleek—minimal but well placed armor, secret compartments down the right leg for extra batarangs, a modified utility belt. He lingers a moment on the bird logo on the chest and the style of mask. “That looks a lot like a Nightwing costume,” he scoffs.

“It has some similarities,” Bruce admits.

“Dick’ll be pissed,” Jason chuckles.

“He won’t,” Bruce says. “I already cleared it with him.”

The cave is silent, except for the echoing fluttering of wings, once more. Finally Jason speaks, his voice tight and quiet. “You never—you’ve never wanted me in your city before. Why now? You know, I still don’t believe in your code, Bruce.”

“I don’t need you to believe in it,” Bruce says. “I just need you to follow it when you’re in Gotham. You’ve shown that you can: Superman was impressed at your restraint with the League. Even though killing would have been easier, you held back.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t do that for you,” Jason snaps.

“No, you didn’t,” Bruce agrees. “But who did you do it for?”

“Myself, mostly. Supes would have made my life hell. And…” Jason hesitates and looks over at Terry. And Terry hadn’t wanted him to kill, he admits to himself silently. But he’s not going to tell Bruce that. Not that he needs to—he can tell from Bruce’s calm expression that the old man already knows. Jason snorts. “Look, I’m not going to just abandon my work as the Hood. There’s a lot of cartels and gangs that are kept at bay because somebody has my number. If I stop showing up—”

“You wouldn’t have to,” Bruce interrupts. “You could be Red Wing in Gotham, and Red Hood as needed elsewhere.”

Jason hesitates. “I wouldn’t pull punches as Red Hood.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m just saying don’t kill in my—” Bruce shakes his head, stopping himself. “Don’t kill in _Gotham_. Not while you’re with Batman. I’m not asking you to respect me; I’m asking you to respect the legacy. And to respect Terry.”

 Jason’s head feels like it’s spinning as he turns to Terry. “Do you—do you want me here? I wouldn’t do this for Bruce, but…”

“Shut up,” Terry smirks. “Of course I want you here.” Terry steps forward and laces his fingers with Jason’s, seemingly uncaring if Bruce sees. “We work well together. We train well together. We fight well together… and other things. Plus,” he winks, “we’ll drive Bruce nuts.”

Jason swallows. He looks around the cave a moment, wondering to himself if it’s that easy. If Gotham, if this familiar darkness of the cave, can be home again. He tightens his grip on Terry’s hand a moment, as if convincing himself that everything is real. He feels strangely light and warm as Terry’s hand tightens back.

“Let me see those specs on the suit again,” Jason mutters. He can see Terry smiling a wide grin out of the corner of his eye. They both know he’s not going anywhere.

 

_“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.  
Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”_

—     _Martin Luther King, Jr._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hopefully I'll play in this universe again; expect more Batman one-shots (fewer series) from me in the future. ~ Tsuki


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